


wash

by freakedelic



Category: DCU (Comics), Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Apprentice Arc, Batman (Character), Belting, Blowjobs, Brainwashing, Child Abuse, Conditioning, Degradation, Dehumanization, Drugging, FaceFucking, Gaslighting, Hallucinations, Humiliation, Internal Character Focused, Internal Monologuing, M/M, Minor Dick Grayson/Koriand'r, Nanobots, Nightmares, Physical Abuse, Psychological Horror, Punishment, Self Harm, Shameless Hair Kink, Slade is Kinkshamed, Solitary Confinement, Starvation, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide Attempts, Teen Titans (Characters), The Doom Patrol (Characters), Victim Blaming, Whipping, dubcon, graphic depictions of suicide, nonconsensual everything, painal, psychological abuse, robin-centric, some REALLY fucked up borderline fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2020-10-18 21:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 34
Words: 131,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20646275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: And if Robin had known everything?Well, Robin was a hero. There never was a choice.A hero—but just a boy.( or: slade the deathstroke will have his apprentice, no matter what it takes. apprentice!fic. now complete. )





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> so. this has been in the works for about a . . . year? well, barring the hiatus i took because my mental health tanked. it's complete, clocking in at about 130k, and i'll be publishing it weekly as it's edited. big thanks to rosie, ren and lori, my beta team/cheerleading squad. y'all are bomb. it's kind of been my passion project, and honestly i don't know what i'll do now once it's over. i'm thinking another, nastier sladin fic >:)
> 
> this is . . . kind of a spiritual successor to BOY , which i wrote about a year ago. the idea was i wanted to bring robin to that place, but instead of just skipping, all that time and pain would be written out. it ended up a lot more thinky/internal-focused than i intended, but i prefer to think of it as 'literary'. this is inspired in part by pretty much every other sladin fanfic out there, with special shoutouts to my faves, the peace contract and small print. those fics are bomb. i wanted to write the LONG FORM ANGSTY BRAINWASHING FIC of my dreams and - shockingly - i succeeded. (mostly). anyways, it's been a long journey that i'm looking forward to sharing with you!!!! >:3c strap in for some pain y'all.

“So, do we have a _ deal _?”

Slade’s voice is cold and demanding. His face is as inscrutable as always behind the half-lit mask, an icy eye skewering Robin on the spot.

(Roast bird.)

The man towers, backlit by the screens showing the status of Robin’s friends. Alive, for now. At Slade’s pitiful version of mercy. Robin’s fists clench and unclench in green gloves. He doesn’t notice.

He knows that Slade isn’t offering him a real choice—they both know how he will answer. There’s not one speck of Robin’s soul that would let his friends be hurt in his place. There’s not a bit of his mind that doubts Slade would kill them if he refused, if only out of spite. Fear makes Robin’s heart quicken, fear for his friends and for himself, but not real fear.

Deep down, he believes he will survive. Everything else has worked out. Slade has been beaten before, and even his most twisted plan yet will fall to Robin’s ingenuity (or Batman’s, if it comes to that, which it won’t.) The possibility of following Slade’s orders forever is not one he can fully conceive nor one he tries to imagine, a horror lurking just below his pulsing blood.

“Yes,” Robin says, and with a word he sells himself for the lives of his friends.

Slade grins like a shark behind his mask.

* * *

Robin wakes up and he doesn’t remember where he is for the first five seconds, which are the best five seconds of his day. After that, the last thing he can recall is Slade leaning in, breath on his face—_ Slade’s alive after all _—and a piercing pain in his neck. Robin rubs it to find needle marks under his fingers.

Drugged. And god knows what else.

The drug that’s giving him his killer headache, he surmises. It’s not helped by the bright lights streaming in through his closed lids, and Robin shifts his body to put his hands over his eyes, only to realize with a shock that he’s naked.

His eyes shoot open, fingers groping at the area over his eyes. He sighs in relief at his mask still nestled snugly under his brow, eyes opening under the white lids of the mask. Robin’s right—he’s completely naked under the rough sheet that covers him, white like the rest of the small room.

Which means Slade—_undressed him_—

Robin feels nauseous, wrapping the thin sheets around him. He goes through a mental inventory of his limbs, nothing more bruised than usual—he can remember the ones on his arms were gained from blocking Slade’s blows, the ones on his thighs from falling to the ground and rolling. Nothing feels out of place, and he feels slightly better about it all.

It occurs to him that Slade won’t give him back his Robin uniform, and he has to pinch his arm to get himself to sit up and his mind to work.

The room is small and a faded off-white that reflects the bright lights too much. Robin’s mattress is shoved up against a corner, and he can feel the rough plaster behind him. There’s an open door frame to his left, and he can see dirty tiles and a rusted sink through it. A bathroom. In front of him, a steel door locks him in.

It reminds him of Slade, for some reason.

He squeezes his eyes closed, centers himself. The situation, his friends’ lives on the line, causes anxiety to pool in his belly, but he pushes it down. It’s just another part of the life of a crimefighter, Batman has taught him. He’ll have to find a way out of this by himself, without his friends; find a way to deactivate Slade’s nanobots. But he can’t fail. And until then, he’ll have to play along, no matter how much the thought makes his gut curl with revulsion.

_Do it for your friends._

That, he can do. That’s what he’ll always do.

The door creaks, whirring gears giving warning before it opens. Robin pulls the sheet over his body with a squeak that he really hopes Slade doesn’t hear as the door creaks open and the man appears.

From the floor, Slade towers even more, but Robin refuses to be intimidated. Even as he looks down to make sure his body is totally covered.

Slade throws something onto the floor. Robin peers over to see a white T-shirt and pants. “Get dressed,” the man rumbles.

Robin looks up at him, momentarily confused; Slade doesn’t move. “But I—Can’t you . . .”

“Do you really want to test my patience so soon?” Slade says sharply. Robin fidgets awkwardly and then grabs the sheets and pulls them around himself to hide his body. He picks the clothes off the floor, eyes still on Slade, who stands as immovable as ever. He hurries into the unbarred bathroom to change.

The place is narrow, only a toilet and a sink; barely enough space to change in. He hurries, paranoid that Slade will appear in the doorway to watch him with his one merciless eye. The clothes are rough against his skin as he pulls them on, and there are no tags, just plain white fabric meant for exercise. It’s the kind of thing he’d wear in the cave for training with Bruce.

Robin pulls it on hurriedly and slows his steps when he walks out the doorway. Slade stands there, passive and unmoving as ever. “Follow,” he commands, and Robin winces at his own subservience even as his feet behind to move.

He follows Slade through white passages, the same type as his room—no windows. Robin purposefully moves more slowly than Slade until the man grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks him bodily forward, Robin wincing and stumbling.

“Don’t play games with me,” Slade warns. His hot breath is in Robin’s face, Robin wincing and struggling against him. His hands pry at Slade’s grip on his shirt, but to no avail—he never _was _able to get the much stronger man off of him once he had gotten a hold. Robin’s left with a vicious glare, trying to bring up the contours of Batman’s face in his mind to perfect it. “This is not the battlefield, boy. Here, I am your _master_, and I expect to be treated as such.”

The declaration of control, of dominance, makes every ounce of Robin’s brain lash out. “Fuck you.” His face explodes with instant pain, and seconds later he’s spitting blood on the ground while stars dance in front of his vision. Slade puts his hand down.

“I control the lives of your friends, remember?” he says silkily. “Is your dignity really the hill you want them to die on?”

Robin grits his teeth, now stained pink. Metal fills his mouth, but it’s not entirely unwelcome; it’s real, and alive, and fills him with adrenaline. His teeth grind, but he doesn’t reply.

“Answer me,” Slade says softly.

“No,” Robin grinds out.

“No, _what_?”

_What? He can’t mean . . ._

Robin grits his teeth, lip twisting to sneer at him. A horrible, evil man. His _rival_ and enemy in every sense of the word.

And here he is.

Forced to do everything he demands.

The weight of it seems to bear down on him, fist curling at his side and a hand clenching on Slade’s gauntlet. Slade seems intent on making him _submit_, rubbing in his defeat. And yet he’s right—there’s nothing Robin wouldn’t give for the life of his friends, not even his pride.

“_Master_,” he spits. Blood stains the floor from his mouth.

“Good boy,” Slade says smoothly, and Robin’s anger hikes up another notch. Slade drops his shirt and spins on his heel, Robin stumbling to regain his footing. His face forms a snarl at Slade’s back, but he doesn’t protest as he moves along.

_I will get you, Slade, _he promises, as much to the man as to himself. _When this is all over, I will _end _your career as a criminal._ Slade marches on, oblivious to his thoughts, but they make Robin feel better. He’s escaped more dangerous situations, and he’ll escape this one.

Hopefully, a little voice in his head adds traitorously, and he squashes it like he wishes he could squash Slade.

The room that Slade settles on is just as blank as any other, the huge steel door towering over Robin. Slade takes off his glove to reveal what looks like a perfectly normal hand, scanning his thumb against the lock. Seconds later, the door is opening, Slade putting his hand on Robin’s shoulder to pull him inside.

Robin shirks away from the touch, glaring, before giving his shoulder a shake and heading inside himself. The room is huge, at least by the standards of his own, and it has one obvious purpose: training. It smells new, though, not like the old-feet-sweat of used exercise rooms. He can see that the pads that line half of it wall to wall, the equipment and staves that sit at the edges.

“You’re going to _train _me?”

“You are my apprentice,” Slade explains, amused. “I don’t intend to let you get away with _subpar_ skills.”

The moniker sends angry itches down Robin’s spine, but overall he actually feels – relieved? It could be worse, though what exactly worse would be he doesn’t care to theorize about. He loathes Slade tell him what to do, but as long as he’s _forced _to, getting a chance at fighting him is better than sitting around in his room. He shifts on his feet in preparation, though he stops when he sees Slade’s gaze lingering on him.

It feels . . . uncomfortable, even though he can’t see the man’s face, like he’s being evaluated and picked apart. Slade has a way of _always _making him feel small.

Slade makes his way across the floor, boots echoing on the weird material. Robin follows with shorter strides, adrenaline rearing in expectation as he wipes blood off his lips. Slade hands him a _bo_, one that, Robin notes, was made specifically for his height; it balances perfectly in his palm. Just like his clothes.

_How long has Slade been planning this? _The thought that it could have been so premeditated sends shudders down his spine, like so many things about Slade. He’s not given time to think about it, however, because Slade’s staff is coming straight at his head without any warning. Robin ducks, and they begin—

It’s familiar, at first, the back and forth between them—almost as if they really _are _on the battlefield.

“Don’t be stupid. More weight on your back foot,” Slade says, infuriatingly casual as the side of his staff pushes Robin to the ground. His boot comes down on where Robin’s chest would be as the boy spins out of the way, jumping back on his feet.

Robin can only stare in mild wonder and then anger as he realizes his enemy is correcting him—_training _him. “Don’t tell me what to _do_!”

“I’m your _teacher _now, boy. Do as I say, and it might hurt _less_.” He punctuates it with a searing feint and kick that leaves Robin gasping.

The next time a blow lands, Robin rocks onto his back foot and lets the force rattle through his bones.

This time, his shoulder isn’t the only thing that smarts, and he has a feeling his pride will be taking more blows than he does in a sparring session with Starfire.

Except now, Slade’s condescending voice tells him _exactly _what he did wrong every time he misses, every time one of Slade’s glancing blows hits his skin.

There’s something else, too, and Robin becomes more and more furious as he’s straight up unable to hit Slade. The man seems to dodge too easily. Robin’s blows always whip through the air millimeters from the man’s body. It’s not any different from his regular tangles with the man—here and now he is one on one, with no planning, against someone with documented metahuman abilities. It’s the kind of opportunity he’s wanted for _ so long _, and he jumps to action with enthusiasm. It’s quickly dimmed by frustration.

Slade twists and turns and dodges and moves like the wind. Robin’s never remembered him this fast, this dangerous—this _ lethal _. He curses and dodges, barely able to get hits in, the exhilaration of it all giving away to pure frustration.

_ Why can’t I HIT HIM? Was there something in the drug? _

Fights with Slade are the biggest challenge that Robin has ever faced in his short career as a hero, but now the challenge seems impossible.

“You drugged me,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Trying to train me in an _unfair fight_?”

Slade laughs lightly. “No fight is _fair._ The drugs aren’t making you _weak_. I’ve just been holding back, my boy.”

“I’m not”—Robin aims a nasty spinkick before flipping away; it glances off Slade’s gauntlets—“your _boy_.”

“Perhaps not yet,” Slade admits.

With a yell of anger, Robin launches himself at him.

But failure makes him angry, and he struggles to control himself. He can’t tell if the heat beading on his skin is from his anger or his exertion.

“Frustration is making you sloppy,” Slade says. His _bo _catches the side of Robin’s leg as he charges, tripping him to the ground. Slade leans over his back. “Practice precision. Control yourself.” His dialogue is nothing like the taunting of battle or his threats to Robin’s friends; it is simply the commands of a teacher.

He sounds for all the world like Batman. _How dare he act like Bruce_.

“I do what you say because you’re blackmailing me, _Slade_. That doesn’t mean we have any—any _real_ relationship.”

Robin grunts in anger, pulling himself forward embarrassingly across the floor. He jumps up and spins on Slade. Now anger really has flushed his face.

“You will still obey me when I train you, boy.”

Robin stalks him in a circle, eyes fixed on Slade’s mask. Slade moves in turn, orange and black bringing to mind a tiger ready to pounce—and Slade isn’t tame like Selina. They stay that way, gazes flickering back and forth.

“Planning to make me better so I can finally beat you and save my friends?”

“You assume you would ever be able to win against me,” Slade says, unbothered.

Robin feints to the left, sliding under and between Slade’s legs at the last second. He’s on his feet, swinging at Slade’s back. The _bo _connects with the most beautiful sound in the world. Robin has to quell his small triumph, jumping back to avoid Slade’s counterattack.

It’s _something_. Something to show him that he can do this, a small way to exert influence. He grins in satisfaction. “Is that so!”

They go back and forth, Slade’s cool voice making Robin furious enough to try and hit him. The rhythm is almost calming, reminiscent of the Batcave—sparring with Batman and Batgirl. It’s familiar, if a bit painful when Slade gets in a good blow. He doesn’t know how long they fight—much longer than any of their previous ones, much longer than any sparring session of his has gone before. Robin begins to wonder if or when Slade intends to end it, but he refuses to ask. He refuses to give his hated enemy the satisfaction.

His only measure of time is the pain that the exercise incurs. Robin’s muscles ache, and he has to start correcting for their weakness in his strikes. Slade seems just as unflappable as when they began, moves conserved and strikes lethal.

“Pace yourself,” he advises.

Robin glares at him. A gasp. “I know how to fight, Slade. I’ve learned from better.”

He can almost hear Slade’s derisive snort from across the room.

They continue.

Robin’s breathing starts to come shorter and shorter. He has to pause between strikes to get more air in. Mouth open, he heaves in oxygen, but there’s nothing to do but keep on fighting. He’s not sure how long he pushes forward, locking his pain away in a small part of his mind where it can’t make him less effective.

Slade is still as silent as ever.

They continue.

Robin’s muscles go from aching to burning. His strikes are uncoordinated. He stops landing even the occasional one on Slade. His feet feel like they could collapse under him at any moment, and he keeps them under him with sheer force of will.

Slade is still as fast as ever.

They continue.

Sweat pours down the back of Robin’s neck. Rivulets stream down his face and he can’t help but think, vaguely, that the gel must be washing out. It tastes bitter on his tongue. He can feel his pants sticking uncomfortably to his legs when he moves.

Slade is still as strong as ever.

They continue.

Robin’s knuckles are white as he spins and slashes with his staff. He can feel his hands shaking. White dots dance in front of his vision like stars. Every time he swallows his throat rasps. The back of his throat and his ears ache. He desperately wants nothing more than to lay down on the ground and pull in air like a drowning man, soothing muscles that are now on fire.

Instead, he pulls on every inch of his will to keep on fighting like his life depends on it. The imagination gives him a burst of adrenaline; he blocks a blow by Slade and retaliates with a vicious jab at his legs. Robin jumps.

He catches the bottom of his foot on the staff. Robin falls backwards with a grunt as the wind is knocked out of him. He lays there, foot throbbing, wheezing up at the ceiling. Slade’s staff finds its way to his neck.

Just a reminder that Slade has gotten the killing blow this round.

Robin grimaces, his exhaustion dulling the loss of his pride at losing. He rasps through his nose, still unable to speak—not for lack of trying.

“Get up,” Slade says. The staff leaves Robin’s neck.

Robin stares at the tiled ceiling for one more second.

Slade kicks him, hard, in the ribs. Robin lets out a yell as he’s flipped to his side, gasping at the new pressure on his lungs. “Wha-!”

“I gave you an order.”

Robin makes a spitting motion to the side as he turns and slowly rights himself on his hands and knees. Getting to his feet is more painful now that he’s lain on the blessedly soft ground. He presses the pain down. There are any number of protestations he could make, a thousand reasons why this isn’t fair—but that would require admitting weakness.

And you _never _let enemies see your weak spot.

Robin stands and glares defiantly, rubbing his ribs. Not cracked, but he’s all too aware that Slade’s steel-toed boots could easily have shattered bone. The idea that Slade might be going easy on him makes him sick, but that might just be the nausea from exertion.

Slade attacks, again and again, and this time all Robin can do is dodge. Attacks are met with more pain, and parrying sends shockwaves down his arms that threaten to knock him over. Pain defines every rasping breath he takes, exhaustion threatening to make him keel over whenever he moves too much on one side.

His eyes are filled with the same fury for Slade as always, even as his most common jumpkicks degrade and he has to resort to more ranged attacks. Slade seems to have somehow infinite stamina, moving faster than ever, blows hitting harder.

Robin goes down for the second time when he fails a kick he should have known better than to attempt. Slade grabs his ankle. Robin hits the floor on his bruised rib and lets out a yell he can’t hold back, almost on his stomach in pain. The mat smells like new as he takes wheezing breaths.

“Get up,” Slade says.

Robin tries to move but everything _hurts _and he has to anyways. He heaves himself to his knees, almost falling over from the dizziness. He stumbles on unsteady feet, coughing.

He lasts two moves before Slade slams him bodily into the mat. Robin feels his nose crunch and start to bleed, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. It smears on the floor. Robin watches it drip, trying to move.

“Get up,” Slade drones, fuzzy and hard to hear.

Robin gasps with the pain of it, barely able to push himself to his knees. Blood pounds like drums in his ears, in time with his frantically racing pulse, heart trying to bring blood to every corner of his body. He’s on his feet. _Why is he doing this? What . . ._

He’s on the floor, staring up at Slade’s mask, right before a boot comes down on his wrist. Robin yells, louder this time, trying to pull it out from under Slade’s shoe.

“Get up.”

“I . . .” Robin’s face burns. He feels sweat trail down the sides of his cheeks like tears. He tries to move desperately, scrabbling at the mat with his forearms. His wrist aches. Robin’s up several inches. He’s staring back up at the ceiling.

This blow to his ribs definitely cracks something. Robin chokes on a yell, turning to the side so he doesn’t drown in his own saliva. _Can’t he see--! I can’t—_

“’thought this was supposed to be training,” he rasps. “Not a _beating_.”

“Oh, but it _is_,” Slade says. His mask leers over Robin’s face, somehow predatory despite only one visible eye. . “This is a lesson, _my boy_. A lesson on the very simple premise of our relationship.”

Robin opens his mouth to respond, angry, and can manage only a pained, shallow gasp as Slade presses down on his chest. He leans into it this time, boot shining in the light of the room.

“You are my apprentice. I am your master.” Robin glares up at the hated voice. “I require obedience, and I demand respect. This is my _due_. Because—” Robin gasps in air as the boot mercifully loosens on his chest “—I have won, and you have promised me my payment for having the _mercy_ not to end the lives of your friends.”

“That’s not—” Robin’s voice is cut off in a yell as Slade’s boot really does shatter something in him, a rib or two most likely, as he rolls again to the side. Pain shoots up through him, deeper in him than the time he broke his arm, too close to dangerous things. He tries to breathe, and it hurts. All he has are shallow gasps.

“I’m getting tired of your backtalk.” Robin gasps up at him, pain pulsing in his chest like a deep bass drum, echoing in his ears. “Let me enlighten you as to your position. It seems not to have quite sunk in yet. Regardless of the status of your pitiful friends, you are here with me. There is nobody who is going to come to save you, and nobody who—to be quite frank—can hear you scream.” He crouches down. “Except me, of course.” Slade resumes his circling, Robin following him with narrowed eyes. “And I can do anything I want.”

Is Slade trying to scare him? His voice sends shudders down Robin’s spine, and yet—he’s been fascinated by and dealing with Slade for years. He’s not about to bow out now, even if Slade does have the momentary upper hand.

The only thing he fears is for the lives of his friends. _What happens to me doesn’t matter_, he thinks, and the thought jolts him for a second. It’s not that he doesn’t feel fear, but . . .

Robin is sure now that there is very, very little he wouldn’t do to save his friends. Why does he have the feeling that Slade is going to push him to that limit?

“But you _won’t_,” Robin says, absolutely certain of himself. “You won’t kill me, and you won’t hurt me _too _badly. I still have to be your ‘apprentice’.”

Still worryingly willing to hit him, though. The broken ribs that send spikes of pain every time he breathes attest to that.

“True,” Slade muses, though Robin knows he’s not oblivious to the air quotes. “However, I think you’ll find there is a lot more between those two things than you would like to imagine.”

His eye rakes Robin up and down in a way that makes him shudder despite the heat on his skin from the exercise. There’s a subtext there that Robin will have to decipher later—but with Slade there’s always subtext. That’s why Robin thinks he’s never really been able to let go of him, never gotten bored with poking at the layers like he has with so many other villains. Slade seems to sneer down at him as he paces.

Robin sticks out his foot.

It’s a half second impulse to Slade’s circling, a sweep that’s he’s known so many times before, anger making his foot move quickly. It smashes into Slade’s steel toed boot with an almost painful noise. Robin winces, pulling back. Slade looks down.

He laughs, once, nastily.

“You never cease to entertain, do you?” Robin tries to struggle as Slade leans over, grabbing the collar of Robin’s white t-shirt. He hauls him up. Robin thrashes, exhausted muscles trying to eke one more surge of adrenaline out of their situation before going limp.

Everything _hurts_. Slade’s pulling up on him only puts more pressure on his ribs. Robin tastes blood. _That’s bad. I know that’s bad._

He faces Slade with all the resolve he still has, finding it still lingering in the back of his mind, to his appreciation. Slade’s breath warms his face. His rasping mask fills Robin’s ears. Robin’s foot hurts.

“As far as you are concerned, former hero,” Slade says softly, “_I own you_. Every part of you is mine, to do with as a I _wish_. You will call me Master, you will do as I say, you will not talk back, because you exist to serve me. If you pretend otherwise, you will be punished.

Today’s lesson is that you _ cannot win _.”

“I will _never _stop being a hero,” Robin says, a voice of complete and absolute assurance. Slade’s punch hits him in the stomach, right on his broken ribs. Robin curls in a C shape around the gutting pain, unable to find the air to yell. Blood spatters Slade’s mask. Robin realizes it’s his own as he slumps, choking. Pain lances through every vein. _I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe_—

Robin gasps in a breath that tastes of metal. He hangs limply from Slade’s one-handed grip. The back of his neck starts to ache from the fabric digging into it.

“Do you understand?” Slade asks.

Robin just stares. Blood trickles down his chin. He doesn’t see the backhand coming, but he feels it reverberate through his skull. His neck snaps to the side, his mouth filling with blood. Pain blooms on the side of his face.

“Do you _understand_?”

“_Yes_,” Robin snaps, too fast for his own liking. _I can hear you, Slade, _he bites back, and feels filthy.

_You can’t fight if you’re beaten half to death_, he reasons. It still stings.

“Yes . . . ?”

“Master,” he spits.

“Good boy.”

Robin does not feel fear.

(Not yet.)

What he does feel is the beginnings of an inky hatred blooming in his chest.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am Robin,” he says into the mirror, almost unfamiliar lips moving.

“Lift your arms.”

Robin stares distrustfully at Slade, every muscle tense—the ones that don’t ache painfully, that is. He raises them, slowly. Slade moves over to the table that he sits at, towering over him. Robin grits his teeth in his shadow. The side of his face aches at the memory of pain. Slade still stands with the corded danger he always does, but for once in the time that Robin has seen him he isn’t attacking, planning to attack, or even lurking in the shadows. He simply seems intent on his business.

Slade’s fingers grip the bottom of his shirt. Robin has to hold back a flinch, but Slade only pulls it over his head with a swift movement, stinging the wounds. He hates the feeling of Slade’s gloved hands brushing over his skin. Robin is too exhausted to shy away from the feeling, from Slade’s eye taking in everything about him. The shirt goes on the table. Slade’s fingers prod roughly at Robin’s stomach and ribs, hitting sensitive areas that Robin can’t help but make small noises of pain at.

Slade hums thoughtfully. Bandages wind around Robin’s chest, taped and tied, cementing his fractured bones in place. He tries to ignore the casual intimacy of it, the thing that he and Babs would do before she got shot, or the kind of taking-care-of that Alfred does.

There’s no chance of that relationship here. Robin knows better than to think _that_ after Slade beat him into submission. His cheek still aches. No, Slade just wants to make sure he doesn’t heal so badly, his body that Slade “owns” isn’t marred by crooked ribs. The man wants to keep him a perfect apprentice.

Robin seethes, silently, privately, and thinks of revenge.

* * *

Slade shoves him back in his room without—notably—feeding him. Robin tries not to aggravate his wounds as he collapses into bed—not tired, but exhausted bone-deep and aching. He knows it’ll hurt more tomorrow, because these things always do. Robin can’t help but try and begin to comb the walls for bugs, but he’s left in the piercing darkness after five minutes and has to fumble his way awkwardly back to the hard cot. Slade is good at hiding whatever it is he uses to keep track of Robin—he always has been. Robin simply doesn’t have the energy to find it tonight, even if the idea of Slade watching his every move keeps him up much longer than he should be and makes him more tired when Slade rudely wakes him up for training the next morning.

* * *

His face swells where Slade hit him—where Slade continues to hit him when he mouths off or doesn’t do something fast enough or forgets the _ master _. It makes him look deformed, he thinks, bruises standing out against the paling skin. Robin does his best to clean himself throughout the days, but there’s only much he can do with the dirty water in the sink—though he didn’t last before he gave in and drank it. His hair gel washes out soon enough, leaving the dark strands hanging down his face and making him look like a greasy ghoul. Dark circles form under his eyes from the sleep he isn’t getting. Robin checks every day to see if he’s getting noticeable skinnier, but his muscle mass seems stable so far, even if he’s only fed intermittently.

He doesn’t look the _same_, doesn’t look like Robin, the Boy Wonder, the leader of the Teen Titans, Dick Grayson. Robin tries to shake off the feeling, a small thread in the back of his mind, but it refuses to go away and he’s forced to simply shove it down and ignore it as best he can. Slade never calls him by his name, not Robin, just _boy_, as in _come here, boy_, _listen to me, boy_, _correct your stance, it’s pathetic, boy, are you stupid, boy_.

“I am Robin,” he says into the mirror, almost unfamiliar lips moving. The words come out small and tinny, but they make him feel better.

That is one thing Slade will never be able to take away from him.

* * *

Robin loses track of time painfully quickly after the first day. He tries his best to mark the days that pass in the darkness and piercing light of his room, but there’s nothing at all to use. On the days when his training with Slade leaves him with open wounds, he uses them to make a mark. They’re always gone when he comes back in the evening. Slade has a vested interest in keeping him off his balance and unsure, and Robin knows it all too well. A half-remembered segment on interrogation tactics crops up in his mind and he shudders at the other methods. Hopefully Slade won’t—or the situation won’t progress long enough—for the rest of them to be useful.

He heals quickly, he thinks. Some days he wakes up feeling rested but most he doesn’t, others he stumbles out in a haze of tiredness and Slade calls him weak so many more times during training, taunting and hurting him.

* * *

Robin never does Slade’s bidding happily, always glares and grunts and snarls, and he’s pleased with the small bit of resistance. Slade is always keen to pull out the trigger and remind him of their deal when he gets too cocky, and all of Robin’s resistance fades instantly. He tries not to think about his friends if only because he spirals into worry and fear because if there is one thing that he cannot, will not, will never abide it’s the deaths of his friends. Slade doesn’t feed him regularly and Robin doesn’t get enough sleep—he can’t figure out the schedule that Slade’s keeping him on—and the constant exhaustion just makes it too easy to fall into line when Slade commands something. Robin fights back viciously in his mind whenever he feels himself slipping into apathy, letting his gaze flare up at Slade’s or scowling at him.

He thinks about the _anything I want_, the sheer power that Slade has over him, and digging in too deep makes him shudder. It gives him motivation to try and plan a way out, at least, but—

\--but Slade is insistent on stripping him of his free will and has all the tools he needs to functionally do it and no concept put into practice has ever really horrified Robin _this _much. It’s a sick thing to do, Slade’s sick—but Robin knew that.

Now he’s just so much more devoted to bringing him down.

* * *

_What if you never—_

Robin shoves the thought to the bottom of his soul with such force that he almost feels sick.

* * *

Robin heals quick enough, even if he still can’t really keep track of the days. Slade still doesn’t go easy on him, even if he avoids the points where he could do the most damage to the cracked ribs.

Robin still doesn’t win, can’t even score hits some days as the hunger and isolation and sleeplessness bear down on him.

_I was going easy on you._

The patronizing words ring in his head, bounce back and forth in his brain. Slade is _so _much more impossible to win against than he ever was, and . . .

And.

Have Robin’s attempts up until now been a _joke_? Slade, watching from behind the scenes, chuckling at Robin’s _audacity_ believing he could challenge Slade, physically or mentally?

_He always has been one step ahead._ But this is something else, something crueler, like a cat playing with a mouse before snapping its neck. Now, he’s telling Robin that his accomplishments—his only real accomplishments, the only ones he had to work for, to stay up nights for, to think and pace and hope for—came from nothing? Were _given _to him like Slade deigning in his oh-so-powerful state to throw Robin a _bone_? Robin doesn’t want to believe it. The instance with Red X: he tricked Slade some, long enough, he’s stopped Slade from his objectives before, beat the people that he sent after them. No, Slade can be beaten, beaten by Robin, because he has before. Before Slade knew him, before he was invested enough in their rivalry to bother to play with him.

The stakes now are just so, so much higher, and the odds are even less in his favor.

_That’s what heroes _do.

They beat the odds.

* * *

“Again. This time, try and put some _effort_ into it.”

Robin spins his staff to his other hand, stretching out reddened fingers. He’s lucky that he has more energy today—he got a decent night’s sleep and the more than usual of the flavorless mush Slade feeds him, or else he’d be keeling over from exhaustion: their usual end to the sparring sessions.

He takes several steps back, cocking back his foot to push off. Robin accelerates in two long strides, planting his staff on the padded floor. Seconds later he’s flying through the air, over Slade’s head. He lands with a shock, turning—slammed into the wall with a force to rattle bones. _Shit_.

Slade’s body presses in on him, hand braced against the side of his neck. Robin winces as the side of his face digs into the wall. One arm is trapped between him and Slade’s bulk, the other unable to find an angle to fight back.

“Too slow,” Slade says contemptuously near his ear. Robin grimaces as the angle on his shoulder starts to smart. He can feel Slade’s body heat—not covered in armor but for the mask, in a training outfit like his. It’s sweaty and too-warm. “On your feet sooner. More momentum.”

Robin sighs irritably.

He’s pressed painfully into the stone, exhalation cut off with a grunt. Slade does so _hate _backtalk. Robin suffers every time, his shoulder angling uncomfortably—reminiscent of the time Slade twisted it two—three? days ago. He hisses through his teeth. “Do I need to repeat our earlier lesson?” he asks softly.

Robin grinds his teeth. Slade rubs his face in every single second of his forced servitude, a solid wall of muscle and danger pressing him down. Slade’s fingers press against the back of his neck, rough callouses against the sensitive skin, surprisingly warm. His other hand presses into Robin’s wrist, right on the pulse of his veins.

It’s too close, too intimate, skin on skin, Slade pressing on him as if he wants swallow him up. Robin shudders and tries futilely to twist away before giving up and leaning against the cold wall, so different from Slade’s heat.

“No, Master,” Robin grinds out.

“Good,” Slade says, right in his ear. Robin flinches, going tense, still unable to move, Slade’s hand splays on his neck, palm pressing near his ear and pinkie spreading into his hair. Robin stays stock still at the movement and the contact and feels like a deer in the headlights. Something about this is . . . _not right_.

The second lingers.

Robin loses his patience, trying again to jerk away from Slade’s hands. “I get it, okay? Now just—move away.”

“No.”

“Slade!” Robin shimmies his shoulders and tries to move his neck to get away from the now burning body heat. He can feel Slade’s breath on his ear, rasping sharply, every inch of the man against him but _especially _his hands, all sending itches under his skin. He struggles more desperately this time before going limp. _What the hell?_

Just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore, Slade moves away. Robin’s shoulder moves back into place instantly, burning with pain, but the relief of getting Slade _off _of him outweighs it by much. Robin can’t see the expression on Slade’s face at all. _What is he thinking_?

Robin scratches and rubs at the back of his neck and his sore wrist. He wants to get Slade’s sickly warm touch off of his skin but it lingers despite his best efforts. Robin can still feel the fingers on the back of his neck as he scratches viciously, unsure quite what urge he’s fulfilling but recognizing its sheer intensity all the same. Slade still regards him with one eye, emotion inscrutable. Robin moves to a defensive posture on instinct, but the man turns.

“We’re finished,” he says, and that’s the end of that.

* * *

Robin dreams of Slade holding him down in the darkness while he thrashes. He wakes up with his fists in the sheets, shuddering and sweat through. He doesn’t remember in the morning.

* * *

Robin knows that the day is different when Slade throws a skintight black bodysuit down instead of the regular white training clothes. It’s one day he’s actually managed to rest, and he wakes up feeling less fatigued than he has previously. He still goes to the bathroom to change, still staring at Slade as he gathers up the sheets. Slade just keeps an eye on him as usual as he trails into the bathroom. Robin slips easily into the—spandex? Probably a spandex-kevlar weave, high grade. It’s just his size, and he shudders again at how much Slade seems to know, at Slade’s fingers on his skin so he can learn.

More pressingly, he wants to know what Slade is going to have him do that requires such protective gear. It can’t bode well. Slade has been known to hurt him badly without bothering with protective gear, so whatever inspires him can’t be good.

Robin feels exposed in the tight material, but he always feels exposed when it comes to Slade and his gaze. The path they follow isn’t the normal one to either the dining room or the training room. It’s much longer, more winding and changing. Robin hears the deep whirring, the small background of the complex becoming louder and louder as they approach. The walls change from white to shallow grey before turning dark as they approach. Robin takes specific note of the path.

Slade taps in a longer code than usual before opening the huge steel door and passing through. Robin is lead into the biggest place he’s seen in weeks, towering so far above he can’t see the top. The cracks and edges hide in the darkness, overcast by the whirring, working gears. Some of them are larger than Robin, or even than Slade, casting monstrous shadows as they slowly spin. Robin stares around in something like awe. It’s reminiscent of the Batcave, dark and dangerous, the edges blurring and falling away into nothing. He can feel the gears vibrating up through his feet and working through the bones in his chest.

Slade moves as if he’s been here a thousand times and Robin moves absently in his footsteps, still dwarfed by the machinery. It’s meant to intimidate, he assumes, as if Slade’s figure, mask, and danger weren’t enough. Robin wonders if it’s for his benefit.

Then he sees the chair—the throne on the dais—and he can’t help his eyebrows shooting up. It’s intimidating, lurking high above them—and yet. Slade thinks he’s some kind of king of his own complex. It would almost be a joke, if he didn’t hold the lives of Robin’s friends in his hands.

“See something you like?” Slade says, noticing his expression.

“All I see is pride,” Robin tells him.

Slade laughs. “A bold sentiment for a small boy.” Robin glares, almost turning red.

“I’m not a _boy_.”

Slade hums. “We’ll see, won’t we?” He takes the steps to the throne, pulling something out of his black outfit. It’s a small remote, not unlike the trigger he likes to pull out to threaten Robin with at every turn. At his behest, a large screen flickers on across from them. Blue light shines across the dark room, lighting up a smaller chair sitting at the row of screens. Robin stands trapped between them, looking at the bright blue.

“You’ve performed poorly in training so far,” Slade says smoothly, voice just loud enough to be heard over the soft gears. “I think something else might be good for you.” With a flick of his wrist, blueprints light up the screen in front of Robin. Robin stares, feeling small under the light, taking in every aspect anyways. Strangely . . . something about it looks familiar? Is it the plan to Slade’s—no, he wouldn’t show that to Robin.

“What’s that?”

“That’s the floorplan for the building that you’re going to steal from,” Slade says. Robin starts back, staring from the screen to Slade, features twisting into something ugly.

“Steal it yourself, _Slade_,” is out of his mouth before he knows what he’s saying as anger sets in. Slade’s sinking low enough to force him into breaking the law for his own gain? No dice, as the Penguin is fond of saying.

“Boy,” Slade says, perfectly dangerous, “come here.”

“Are you crazy?” Robin asks. “You expect me to—”

He cuts off as he sees Slade dip into his belt, gloved hands coming out and caressing the trigger meant to kill his friends. Slade’s eye gleams. Robin freezes, going stiff at the unspoken threat

“Come _here_.”

Robin does, eyes trained fearfully on the trigger the whole time. Slade’s fingers grip it in a vice, but as Robin comes to stand before the man—climbing his ostentatious but strangely intimidating dais in the process—he wonders how hard it would be to distract him and snatch it. His eyes linger, though he snaps them back to Slade.

It’s not fast enough to see the vicious punch that knocks the wind out of him. Robin is left coughing on his knees on the dais, embarrassingly close to Slade’s steel-toed leather boots. He’s glad he can’t see blood this time.

“I think you should have learned by now that you don’t get to say no to me,” Slade says calmly. “You always seem to forget about your friends. Do you need a—”

“No!” Robin says desperately, not even thinking of the consequences. “No, no—”

Slade kicks him with the disturbingly close steel-toed boots. Pain explodes in Robin’s face. This time, blood from his nose spills down his upper lip as he barely manages to avoid bouncing down the dais steps.

“Do _not _interrupt me again,” Slade warns. Robin grits his teeth, now pink with blood. He pinches his nose shut—thankfully, not broken. Robin is painfully aware that Slade could easily have kicked him harder. “If you disobey me, or fail to get this device, I _will _kill your so-called friends. And to be honest”—here, Robin can sense the cruel smile—“I can’t say I wouldn’t enjoy it. So don’t temp me, hm?”

It begins to sink in that Robin doesn’t have a choice here—_shocking_—and that what Slade is insistent on him doing is stealing. It’s just like Slade to flex his power like this, ironic and cruel. _A hero protects his friends,_ Robin tells himself. _It’s still heroism. It’s not like I’m _killing _anyone._ The thought of Slade forcing him to kill someone is shoved to the very bottom of his mind the instant it appears.

_It won’t come to that_.

Robin stands up, still holding onto his nose.

“Answer me.”

“No,” Robin says, teeth grinding in defeat. “Master.” The humiliating words come out tinny from his pinched nose, something that would be perhaps funny in other circumstances.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Slade sneers. He passes Robin, going down the steps. Robin follows. He wipes blood on his thin suit, and it blends in with barely a gleam.

Slade pulls out a sheaf of papers from what seems to be his desk at the bottom of the bank of computers. Robin notes the pocked that he slips the controller into for further reference, right before he’s looking down at the papers Slade hands him.

_Wayne Enterprises._

Robin can’t help but choke when he sees the name, blood bubbling up in his throat. Some of it drips right onto the AY of WAYNE, smearing it slightly.

“Something the matter?” Slade asks casually.

Robin shakes his head instantly. “N-no. Just. Just that’s a—pretty big company.”

“Have you ever known me to think small?” Slade asks. Rhetorical, or at least Robin’s going to pretend it is, lest the hated admittance of ‘master’ slip past his lips once again.

_Does he know? _Is all Robin can think. _He can’t. There’s no way. Bruce—Bruce keeps it all so . . . so secret. _Robin’s heart pounds in his ears anyways and he tries to take deep breaths to calm himself, hoping Slade doesn’t notice. _Coincidence. It’s a coincidence._ _Don’t react. _Thankfully, Slade seems intent on something else as Robin carefully turns the page.

What he sees are blueprints to the upper floors of the Wayne Industries towers—a little familiar, but something Robin hasn’t actually memorized.

“Memorize it,” Slade says. “I’ll quiz you.” The glint in his eye promises, as always, punishment for failure. Robin turns the page. On it is a real blueprint, this time of a gun based in—red Kryptonite? Robin isn’t much of an engineer, but he’ll know what to look for. “It’s in a safe here.” Slade takes a pen, roughly marking one of the sides of the map. “Hidden behind a painting.” _Not good_, Robin thinks. _One of the worst things. Something capable of destruction in the wrong hands. _And no hands are more wrong than Slade’s. “I expect you to retrieve it.” A pause. “Or you can expect your ex-team to be down another member.”

The paper in Robin’s hand crumples halfway at the threat. He doesn’t notice. “They’re still my _team_, Sl—” He turns red as he realizes he’s not willing to risk further punishment. “No matter what happens,” he mutters.

“Really?” Slade asks. He looms over Robin. “You may think so, but how long will they? Will they keep their faith in their _great _leader mission after mission in my name? After years of criminal activity?” Robin pales. _A year_. “How long will your friends keep faith in their _former _leader? Even the most loyal have to give in sometime, hmm?”

“You’re a_ fool_ if—”

Robin is on the floor coughing blood before he knows what hit him. God, Slade is fast. He can’t get up before he feels a gloved hand yank on his hair, pulling his neck back painfully. Robin grits his teeth in anger. “I don’t tolerate disrespect, boy. You should know that by now. Any longer and I may have to teach a more _permanent _lesson.”

Robin doesn’t want to know what that means and he hopes to god he never finds out as he gasps in Slade’s hold. He could get out of it—has to resist the urge when it comes to Slade’s fury. “Do you understand?” Slade says, fingers closing dangerously tight on Robin’s throat. Robin coughs—

“Yes. Master.”

“Good.” Slade lets him go, leaving Robin gagging on the floor. “Pick up the papers.” Robin fumbles around obediently near Slade’s boots, face burning from the frustration, humiliation, and anger of it all. Slade is vicious and cruel—Robin’s always known that—but here and now it’s on a more personal level, one that stings more than ever.

_You’re learning about him, _a deep part of Robin whispers, the one borne from Bruce’s teaching, the one that stays up late nights with Slade plastered on the wall in front of him. Slade is brutal, but not unfair: he won’t attack without the provocation of Robin’s disobedience. While Robin has little hope for his friends’ safety in the long term, he has some that if he cooperates, he won’t get hurt.

It stings him on a level he never knew imaginable that he has to quite literally bow to Slade and call him “master” and obey his wishes. _Some effing hero you are_. It is, however, manageable, especially if he imagines all the things he’s going to do to Slade: lock him up and never let him see the light of day for his crimes. For threatening his friends.

Robin holds onto the papers as Slade pulls up a diagram on the screen, much easier to see. He walks back to the dais, Robin trailing behind him as Slade sits—_lounges_—on the chair as if it were a throne.

“Sit,” Slade says. There’s not room on the chair, and Robin’s expression must show confusion. Slade lets out a small laugh, so normal that it jars Robin for a moment to hear it coming out of the mouth of his worst enemy. “On the floor, boy. At my feet.”

Robin’s jaw works as he stands, face aching, in front of Slade. His eyes narrow.

His feet fold underneath him, face burning, trying to quell the feeling of being a child in kindergarten. As he stares at the information in front of him, he almost wishes he was.

“What am I _stealing_?” he can’t resist asking.

“Look at the blueprint,” Slade replies from so far above him. _It’s a power play_, Robin reminds himself. _Don’t let it get to you. He’s doing it on purpose. He does _everything _on purpose_. “It’s a laser gun powered by red kryptonite developed by Wayne Industries’ Special Research division.” Robin does. It’s informative so far as he can understand it, sure, but it doesn’t give him the information he really needs to know.

“What are we going to do with it?”

That strange, almost sincere laugh again. “_You_, boy, aren’t doing anything but stealing it for me. The rest is none of your concern.”

Robin frowns.

Kryptonite. Does Slade think he can take on Clark? Is he running a job for Luthor? Either way is bad news, nothing Robin wants to help with.

He doesn’t have a choice. Robin will just have to pray that whatever harm he does will be mitigated by other, more successful heroes.

_Bruce will understand._

_Please understand._

* * *

Hours later, it blurs in his mind as Robin leans dejectedly against Slade’s chair. Slade’s solemn voice never lets up as he presses Robin relentlessly on every aspect of the information until Robin can see the floors in his mind and imagine the gun in his hand. Some small part of him wants to cry in frustration. It’s easy enough to ignore.

Robin will _never _give Slade the satisfaction of seeing him cry. That’s one thing he’s sure about. Especially not over some stupid diagram.

He’s actually relieved when Slade stands up and declares them finished, taking the papers from Robin’s hands. He flips through them, making sure they’re all there before pressing them into his belt—some of them still spotted with Robin’s blood. Robin stretches, bending back as far as he can go and then forward to touch his toes. Halfway through he notices Slade regarding him silently with that one eye of his. Robin feels something crawl over his skin and he stops, suddenly feeling small.

Slade moves, and he follows. He’s fed well today, swallowing down the flavorless food as best he can. Beggars can’t be choosers—even when his eyes ache with lack of sleep.

Robin collapses into bed without even bothering to check for cameras, but anxiety keeps him awake. He _has _to find a way to get his friends away from Slade’s clutches, considering that Slade intends to use his influence to the greatest effect. This just ups the ante more—but it gives Robin a chance to do something. He doesn’t know quite what it will be, but—

He can feel the starvation and the fatigue eating away at his mind, even after such a short time. The exhaustion that comes from constant training isn’t good either. Robin is young, but not so stupid that he doesn’t notice Slade’s attempts to break him down. Fear curls in him, ignored completely. _This is a chance I can’t afford to waste._


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin feels like crying, but he doesn't have time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, the next chapter, or as i like to call it, angst installment -  
BUT FOR REAL! thanks everyone who's commented and everyone who's just lurking and reading <3 I'm so glad i get to share this w u lsdkjfsl i still can't get over the fact that it's done!!! this one gets some plotty stuff going . . . angsty plotty stuff, of course. Thanks to eevee, who beta'd this chap!!

Robin wakes up—not refreshed, exactly, but less exhausted than he remembers. His muscles are less sore due to the lack of training yesterday. He almost finds himself feeling grateful towards Slade before he instantly shuts off the feeling. Robin will _ not _thank his captor for basic necessities.

Slade stands in the doorway and passes him the apprentice gear. It occurs to Robin that Slade must have a uniform he wants him to wear. He wonders if he’ll get the robin outfit back and a surge of real excitement fills him. The black domino mask that he’s managed to keep on is all he has left of it so far. Robin keeps having nightmares where it falls off.

They don’t go to the room with the gears—_the throne room_, Robin’s mind thinks traitorously—instead making a detour to a smaller room. Slade throws it open to show a sight Robin has never been more grateful for—a shower. Robin steps in the room with a sigh of relief. It actually looks nice, not like the rusted, creaky sink in his room.

“Five minutes,” Slade says. Robin wonders how he’s going to tell the time when there are no clocks in the complex. His eye bores into Robin.

“Aren’t you going to—”

“Four minutes, fifty seconds,” Slade says. He doesn’t close the door. Robin burns. He stares at the mask before calculating the filth on his own skin against embarrassment and Slade’s unrelenting gaze.

Robin strips in record time. He refuses to meet Slade’s eye as he reaches behind the shower curtain. There’s not time to let it warm up, so he’s left shivering under the freezing water and grabbing at scalding soap. He jumps out, from the cold water to the ice of Slade’s eye, wrapping himself in a towel as quickly as possible. Robin rubs himself down, trying to preserve his modesty. He notices how bruised he is in the neon lights, purple and green and blue crisscrossing everywhere from the training. It’s nothing new, but now . . . it feels less like well earned relics of battle and more like marks of abuse. 

The last bit of his hair gel has washed out, leaving it stringy and wet around his face. He looks like a ghost, an effect only heightened by the black jumpsuit.

Slade still coldly observes. Robin hates it. He feels vulnerable, skin itching. There is no situation in which his nemesis should be seeing him like this but—here they are. Here Robin _is. So much for dignity._

He shakes off his hair further as Slade walks to the gear room. Robin always keeps up after the first day, even with Slade’s long legs and good foot and a half on him. Being around him so long does a lot to pound the size difference into his mind. Something that was intimidating in the heat of battle . . . is now even more intimidating, unfortunately. Robin makes a face.

Robin can feel the vibrations in his feet even before they get to the throne room. They echo through his bones uncomfortably—or, perhaps, it’s just nerves. He prefers the former. Slade goes right to the side, finding a glass case Robin hadn’t noticed before (or maybe it wasn’t there?)

The uniform inside is in Slade’s colors, but much too small for him. The signature _S _hovers above the breast, black and orange with pads to protect the wearer. It’s nothing special.

“For me,” Robin says.

“A real uniform. Not a _costume_,” Slade sneers. The déjà vu of Bruce saying the same thing washes over Robin like a wave.

“I know,” Robin snaps.

“Really?” Slade asks sarcastically. “I suppose that’s why you run around looking like a clown straight out of the _circus_.” Something shudders through Robin at the last word. _No—he can’t. He DOESN’T know. _“You have potential if you stopped playing at “heroism” like it’s a game. That’s one thing your mentor understands. Apparently, he didn’t pass it on to you.”

Batman and his soldiers. One of the reasons Robin wanted to leave Gotham in the first place. Just like Slade to echo him like a parrot.

“I don’t treat my friends’ lives like a game,” Robin growls.

“Really?” Slade taps his belt. “Then why are you talking back to me like you have the right, _apprentice_?”

Robin’s mouth snaps shut, instant fear gluing his jaw together. Slade’s right. What _is _he doing? It’s so easy to forget, even with Slade’s cruel tones and the oppressive chambers, the life that is on the line. Robin curses himself for his thoughtlessness and selfishness even as fury at Slade roils in his gut.

Slade lets out a pleased hum that only infuriates Robin more. The man ignores it, as usual, pulling out a small key and opening the case to show the uniform. “Put it on.”

Robin steps forward, staring at the orange and black, the silver colors on it. He reaches out slightly, almost wondering if it would disappear—but no, the armor is as firm under his fingers as the ground is beneath his feet. He slips off the boots first, stepping into them, making his way up under Slade’s blazingly cold stare. Shoes, gauntlets, gloves—they’re all picked up and applied, one by one, slowly overtaking Robin in something that is only ever _Slade_. Robin feels like he’s being consumed and engulfed, wishing for all the world for his gaudy and impractical costume (the one from his parents, from Bruce, the one he _chose_.)

_It’s just fabric._

_It’s just a symbol_, he tries to tell himself, the cloth slipping over him. But that’s all they are, in the end, the Titans and the League and Robin and Slade. That’s why they wear costumes and hide their faces, why Batman is barely real and hardly known.

_You might as well be Slade’s already_, a small, traitorous part of him whispers, but Robin shuts it out. His soul, the thing that has carried him this far—that counts for something. It has to count for something.

The small _S_ goes right over his heart, so much heavier than its brass should allow for. Robin feels it hang there in the silence, broken only by Slade’s smooth tones—

“Very nice. Hello, Renegade.”

_Renegade_.

The word slips off Slade’s tongue and sounds vicious in the soundwaves it occupies, a fundamentally wrong part of the universe.

He turns, Slade still regarding him. The man holds something out in his gloved hand and drops it into Robin’s twin. It’s likewise (kind of obnoxiously, Robin thinks) branded with the _ S _. He recognizes a communicator, obediently slipping it into his ear. Next, Slade moves over to another case—

“I’m not killing anyone.”

The twin knives glisten in Slade’s fingers as the man turns a dangerous eye on Robin. Robin grits his teeth to avoid the flinch that comes with Slade’s anger—his inevitable blows.

He should have flinched. The razor edge is at his throat in seconds. Robin’s fists clench and unclench at his sides, breathing shallowly as he keeps his eyes on Slade. Blood wells at the tip.

_I’m sorry_ hovers on the tip of his tongue, he notices with surprise and more than a little disappointment in himself.

“One more word out of you,” Slade says casually, “and I’ll carve that symbol you hate so very much on the skin underneath it.”

Robin’s eyes widen. He licks his lips, stuck between a rock and a hard place—

“You will take the weapons I so generously give you. If you _fail_ because you hold back, you will not be the only one feeling my wrath.” The knife hovers dangerously before flicking back to Slade’s body. The man’s body language relaxes as if he’d never been angry in the first place, Robin’s breath filling his lungs once again.

With a flip, the handles of the knives are pressed towards Robin. Robin takes them, clasping weapons of death in his fingers, true fear over what Slade might ask of him sliding in with the rest of it, climbing up his throat.

Slade’s not pressing the issue.

Not yet.

How long does Robin have, he wonders, before Slade tries to force him somewhere he can’t return from?

The knives press easily into sheathes on his back, made for the express purpose, Robin realizes. More of Slade’s planning. It’s not very surprising anymore, though . . . no less disturbing. He stares up at Slade for his next instructions.

The slideshow flicks to the next pictures—these ones in color, showing the top of the WAYNE building, grainy security photos of the corridors showing personnel moving around in fast motion. Slade zooms in on a small part of the picture. “Your target.” It appears to be a nondescript painting, but Robin knows that it hides a safe behind it. He nods silently, unwilling to acknowledge Slade with the words he inevitably demands.

“And one more thing.” Slade pulls out another document, passing it off to Robin—a string of typecast letters and numbers and symbols. “The code to the safe.” Robin stares at it, eyes brushing over the combination—not something he could easily memorize, even with his trained mind. Instead, he puts it into his belt, folded tightly but unable to forget it.

_I’m really doing this. God, I’m going to rob Bruce._

_He can’t hold it against me, right? Considering the circumstances, but . . . he’ll think I’ve betrayed him. They’ll all think I’ve betrayed them._

Slade approaches him, a strange look in his eye. Fingers lay on Robin’s padded shoulder, almost paternal, heavy. Robin’s glad there’s space between them, enough that he can’t feel the heat on Slade’s palm. The hand twists, Robin caught underneath it as immobile as if Slade were holding him down as it trails to his neck, fingers too close to his jugular. Robin doesn’t look away from Slade’s cloaked face, unable to as his muscles tense under the contact. Flinching now would be as bad an idea as running away from a tiger.

Pain pricks in his neck and Robin’s eyes widen involuntary as he realizes what’s happening. A second time. _Drugged._

He passes out in Slade’s arms.

* * *

The weather in the City is biting, different from the cooler temperatures that Robin remembers from when Slade first picked him. He’s still fairly warm as he scales the building, thankful that Slade doesn’t see fit to freeze him as well as starve him. The communicator crackles in his ear, Slade’s soft breathing audible when the wind against the side of the building stops. He doesn’t speak for long chunks of time, simply watching, leaving Robin to speculate what he’s doing on the other end of the line. Planning something nefarious, probably. Something Robin will have to . . .

Something he can’t untangle. Not with his friends’ lives on the line.

Robin tries to ignore him, tries to pretend for a few seconds that he’s climbing the wall of Wayne Enterprises in Jump City for a reason that’s perfectly normal to his strange superhero life, and not his new one as a sidekick to a villain. The air, neither stale nor recycled, is cool on his face. He’s not truly free, but he can fantasize about finally being away from Slade and his overbearing presence, from the constrictive place.

He snakes up easily, weapons secure on his back. Gloved fingers dig into nooks and crannies when they’re available—spikes pressed into the wall to hold onto when they’re not.

Twilight brushes his shadow onto the pale window as Robin counts it, double checking in his mind to make sure that it’s the right one. It is, and he’s thankful for the small railing that he crouches on. It’s short work to cut the locks and pry the window open. Robin lets down on a soft rug with only a rush of cool air to show his passing. The window is shut behind him.

Robin has only seconds to disable the security cameras before they see him. He plays with the idea of letting himself be seen but discards it, painfully. Even in the pale light the room seems more home than Slade’s cold hideout. Robin figures it’s probably just the W logo above the desks and computers, but it makes him feel a little bit more grounded.

Clipping the security camera wires in a place that he’s spent so long studying with Slade is easy. It won’t be long before whoever’s out there notices, however, and Robin gets going down the long halls. Before he leaves, however, he spies a clock on the wall. It seems almost out of place after so long without one.

_7:36_

And there’s the time. Not that Robin knows the day or even the week . . . even so, it’s grounding. Makes it all seem more real in a way that the blurry training with Slade is hasn’t. Robin realizes that’s part of what the man is going for. More tricks to keep him off balance.

He takes a deep breath. _7:37. I can do this._

It’s easy, actually, to slip past the cameras or disable them. The real security is put into the safe, not the ways of making it impossible for people to slip in or out. Robin flickers around the halls deeper into the building, memorizing his way out so that he can get back if something goes suddenly sideways. _God, it’s good to move._

If his friends lives weren’t on the line, it would almost be relaxing to do something so simple. Robin flicks a small flashlight as he gets to the point in the map he knows the safe is at. It’s hidden behind an abstract of a large cat, staring out at the viewer through green, predatory eyes as trees snake out behind it. It’s orange and gold under the flashlight that Robin grips between his teeth, hands grasping on either side of the sharp frame before lifting and pulling it away.

The glowing blue screen that flickers on behind it is almost expected.

“Good boy,” Slade says. Robin flinches and hisses. Slade chuckles at his shock at the other end of the line. “Forgotten about me so soon?”

_Never_.

“No . . . master,” Robin mutters.

He can almost hear Slade’s grin.

The keyboard that’s provided under the security lock is surprisingly normal looking. Robin digs into his pocket for the combination. He feels vulnerable standing in the hall, Slade’s voice in his ear only making that feeling more intense. The paper comes out, Robin’s eyes flicking over it as he types it in. The keys light up under his gloved fingers. _Fancy._

Seconds later, he hits the enter key.

The screeching noise that responds sends shockwaves through him even more surely than Slade’s smooth tones. Everything seems to turn red at once as Robin stares desperately around him. The safe clicks and beeps. Lights flick on all around him, blinding him.

He can hear commotion, fingers fumbling with the mistyped password. This time, the double checks every letter, number, and capitalization, furtively glancing down the hall as he’s pinned in the light.

The seconds tick down as he wastes them.

Robin holds his breath as he flicks the last letter in.

The vicious beeping fills the room again. Red lights. This time Robin can hear running footsteps. Fear really takes over this time, the shock of being found out making his heart pound faster. He tries to make sure he’s not misreading anything in Slade’s rough hand, but every symbol is unmistakable. Flickering fingers tap it in again—

_Nothing_.

“Get down on the ground!” The security man’s call. Robin’s hand is in his belt and flicking towards him before he knows what’s happening. The _S _shaped things Slade has supplied him with fly through the air. Robin’s aim is off, the thing is strange—

The guard screams as it impales him through the forearm. _How sharp . . ._

Robin makes a move to get up and leave—

“You don’t have the item,” Slade observes dangerously.

“No, but—”

“Do you think I'm joking when I threaten your friends, boy?”

“No!” Robin hisses. There’s no way to hide in the long hall. He’s a sitting duck. If he weren’t so stuck, he could slip into the ceiling and get away. “The password’s wrong. It’s not working. I put it in twice, Slade.”

Thoughtful humming. “Don’t mock me with excuses.”

“I’m _ not _!” Real desperation. “Whoever gave it to you was—misinformed, or they changed it, or . . .”

More footsteps. Robin presses his body against the wall in futile

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not! I swear!”

“I don’t _believe _you. You’re playing games with me—and that is not something I tolerate from my _property_.”

The hiss on the line makes Robin’s neck shudder and his hair stand on end. He pretends it’s just the static and not the voice.

Not the _claim_.

Instead, he jumps against the wall to avoid another guard rushing down the hall at him, flipping in the small space and just barely not banging his head as his feet come down on the man’s shoulders. He grunts. “I have to get out of—”

“You will get me that weapon or your friends will die.”

Robin chokes. “Please, you have to understand, I promise, Slade . . ._god_.” He’s glancing behind him, pressed up against the wall and trying to get a good look at the safe, still blinking red. Robin fumbles with the fallen guard, trying to find something in there that can help him—stun baton, maybe, to short circuit the thing. He finds something better: a key card. His gloved fingers find the barcode as he takes the steps back to the safe, trying to find a scanner—

_There_. Desperate fingers flip it over and put it over the red lines.

Nothing.

Robin tries again, frantically. _Nothing_.

“Slade—"

“My _ finger _ is on the trigger, boy. Do you want to hear your friend’s screams when I have my nanites eat them _ alive _ ? I hear it’s a nasty way to die. Painful. _ Messy _.”

A pathetic sound slips passed Robin’s lips at the thought. Anger curls in him, desperation overtaking it as he wracks his brain. “Please, I . . .”

The WAYNE logo stares at him from the safe, silver and sharp.

WAYNE ENTERPRISES.

Robin remembers, suddenly, Batman as the CEO of the company, pressing something into his fingers.

_Wayne Enterprises Override._

Robin chokes, half in relief and half in fear, wracking his mind to come up with something he knows he memorized. He remembers the clock from earlier, time no longer comforting, instead a steady ticking that wears down on his mind. He grasps, it slips, the fingers of his mind close around it . . .

_041607_

The letters appear as clearly in his mind as he saw them that day, written in Bruce’s cramped handwriting. A date—the day, little more than six years ago, when the two of them met. Strangely sentimental for Batman, but Robin didn’t say anything about it. Simply memorized it, shredded it, and threw it away.

Stored the feeling he’d had when he looked at those letters away in his chest, touching his heart. A small memento, useful only in its sentimentality.

Until now. Robin stands in front of the safe, fingers hovering over the keys, Slade in his ear, security down the hall, his friend’s lives on the line.

A common criminal.

Robin shuts his eyes tight until he realizes he can’t type the code in without them and opens them just enough, wincing with every letter. Betraying Bruce, betraying what he stands for. _It’s necessary_, he reminds himself. Batman’s lectures on leaders having to make tough decisions come to mind again. Robin steels himself.

The safe pops open.

Robin wants to cry, but he doesn’t have time. Fingers grab the metal case inside and clamp around the handle. Someone yells.

“I have it,” he says.

“You’d better,” Slade tells him.

Robin is off. He hears a gun go off behind him. Plaster shatters on the opposite wall. Feet pound on the carpet. Robin stops short as he sees the shadow around the corner, rushing in front and sliding to the floor. The man trips. Robin jumps over his body. His mind flicks back to the memorized maps as his breath sounds in his ears and he pounds through the building. The training over the past . . . months? . . . has strengthened his body, even as bruises ache across his skin.

It still feels good to run.

Robin bursts out of the window into the cold air with exultation. He flips, flies, drifts through the city air. The moment seems to hang in absolute freedom.

Robin hits the ground that is the top of the other building and rolls. The case digs into him and he hisses. Dirt streaks on his suit. He’s up, running across the building, making his way to the rendezvous as fast as his legs can carry him. Suddenly they don’t quite seem long enough as they pound across the buildings. Robin barely makes some of the jumps: Jump City is much less tightly packed than Gotham, shinier and more vibrant in the night. He doesn’t realize what he’s running from until he stops short, puffing.

“Very good, apprentice,” Slade murmurs in his ear. Robin winces. The guns of the place security aren’t what scares him, nor is the concept of being cornered by them. The only thing he’s really scared of is the one he can’t escape, looming over him with a finger on the trigger.

He can only hope the fist doesn’t clench around the throat of his friends.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And I need to know your name,” Slade says lightly. “So that I can take it away from you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so some people have been asking about the, uh, more extreme elements of the story and i PROMISE they are coming it'll just take a little bit to get to them (i need to have some buildup before the bang, okay) BUt  
hopefully this chapter should satisfy y'all <3
> 
> also thanks to eevee for looking this chapter over!!

Robin enters the warehouse minutes later, holding onto his prize with a white-knuckle grip. The place isn’t any colder than the city. Robin leans against the wood in near-relief. He stares up at Slade, the man back in his bulky suit. The man leans casually against one of the wooden shelves, eye fixed on Robin. Noiselessly, he holds out a hand.

Robin walks up to him slowly, footsteps audible in the huge place. He realizes how tight his grip is on the slim metal box, and they loosen as he passes it to Slade. Slade takes it, flicking the thing open with a gloved finger. His eyes rove over the contents. Robin feels nerves coil in his gut, unable to shake the overwhelming feeling that he’s being judged.

_Is there something wrong with it?_

“Very good,” Slade says. The thing clicks shut with a snap. Robin doesn’t even see what’s inside of it.

_You just handed over a dangerous weapon to a supervillain_, a part of him whispers. Robin quashes the anxiety. He doesn’t know exactly what the thing he gave Slade is capable of, nor what the man plans to do with it—and he fears the worst.

He always does, with Slade.

Slade puts the thing back on the shelf with a small noise and regards Robin. Robin feels pinned—

Pain sends shocks across his face. Robin is forced to the side, holding his head. He only has time to make a small noise of question before Slade’s fist hits him in the gut. Robin doubles over, coughing and choking. Slade’s hand is on the back of his neck, pressing in, Robin gasping. The wind goes out of him sharply and he struggles to breathe, wavering in his stance as Slade lets him go. Slade’s fist hits him underneath the chin this time. Robin feels his teeth clack together. Blood from his tongue fills his mouth. He stumbles, hits the other side of the wall painfully. Crimson drips down his chin.

Slade brushes off his fist, tone as smooth as ever. “That’s for forgetting the proper mode of address, boy, and for playing _games _with me.” Robin squints at him through the smarting wounds, aching against the piece of furniture. He realizes suddenly he’s tired, and he hurts.

“I wasn’t—”

Slade raises his hand. Robin’s eyes go wide.

He knows what Slade wants to hear. Robin shuts his eyes behind the mask. “Yes, Master.” The defeated words slip past his lips and sound in the room. He’s almost too tired to bother to be properly ashamed about them, to hate Slade as much as he should.

“Apologize.”

“I’m . . . sorry. Master. It won’t happen again.”

“Glad to hear it,” Slade purrs. “At least I know you’re trying, hm? Seeing your performance, I almost doubted it. I thought the ex-leader of the Titans would put up a better showing . . . but that’s what I get for being optimistic.”

Robin stares, mouth still glued shut, protests on his tongue. Slade’s mask is as impenetrable as ever, but his body language shows amusement and mockery. “You fumbled the passcode, alerted the guards, and showed the whole wide world what you were after and who you were. I’m surprised the Bat trained you. I think he’d be disappointed if he saw the disaster this mission was, don’t you?”

Robin opens his mouth to answer the rhetorical question. Slade cuts him off. “I know he would. And he’s going to be able to see you fail it on all the security cameras you _missed_.”

Bruce. Batman is going to see him, he’s going to look, he’s going to think . . . It all comes crashing down on Robin, the fatigue of the night and the adrenaline and he feels his face fall, feels his eyes burn. He blinks any tears away. Crying in front of Slade—showing weakness that he knows the man will exploit—is unthinkable. Robin is strong, no matter what Slade thinks of him, and he will survive.

Even if this is another scratch in Slade’s bedpost, another foot that Robin is sinking into the quagmire of Slade’s mind games. He’s a hero, he’s been trained for this—

It hurts. His friends will see him. They will think he’s betrayed them, and that, beyond anything else, makes him want to scream. _I never wanted to hurt you! _he wants to yell, but Slade will do his best to make sure that they don’t speak again. Bruce is the worst of it, because Robin has just stolen from him.

He hopes Bruce knows that it hurt every inch of him to do it. Robin’s had to make compromises before, and this is just another one. _Leadership requires tough decisions_, Batman would tell him.

“I hope your hesitance at robbing Wayne Industries won’t be a problem when it comes to later missions, hm?”

Robin’s eyes snap open. “What?”

“Trouble stealing from the illustrious Mr. Wayne? Can’t say I can _relate_,” Slade sneers. “You can take the boy out of Gotham . . .”

Robin’s teeth grind. “I don’t care about Wayne,” he snaps, a little too quickly.

“Are you sure?” Slade queries. “He's quite a fascinating man, really. Pretends to be too stupid to run a company, yet it plugs along just as well without him. More rumor than person, really.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Robin says stiffly. Something horrible curdles in him and wraps around his throat. Slade looks at him like a predator looks at his prey. Robin’s foot is still caught in Slade’s bear trap.

“Wouldn’t you?” Slade murmurs. He moves in, and Robin is suddenly aware of the man’s bulk, the shadow he casts in the light. Robin tries to glance to the side but Slade is closing in too fast. “He’s an interesting man, Mr. Wayne. Orphaned as a child. Pours millions of dollars into charity each year. Strange finances, when you look at them.” He leans in just a bit further. “_Adopts orphans_.”

Robin’s breath catches. He stares up at Slade, the cold and piercing blue drilling into him, and suddenly the mask that hides his face seems thin as parchment. “Wh . . . what are you . . .”

“You have a pretty face, _Dick Grayson_.”

The bottom of Robin’s stomach drops out as he gasps audibly under Slade’s brutal stare. _No. No! He doesn’t . . . he can’t—_

“I—I’m n-not—”

“What did I say about playing games, boy?”

Robin shuts his mouth. He feels acid burn in the back of his throat, something falling from his stomach through his legs and through the floor. _If he knows who I am he must know who Bruce is he must know who Babs is he must know who my team is he must—he can—he—_

“That’s better,” Slade says with a smile. The look makes Robin sick, adrenaline flooding through him. He’s aware of his breathing catching and steadies, it Bruce’s voice coming back to him, teaching him how to control his emotions. “I thought you might hesitate when it came to stealing from your dear old Batman, but you seemed so much keener to break in than I thought.”

“You threatened to kill my _friends_.” Robin can’t keep the incredulous, pained note out of his voice. _I didn’t like it. I didn’t want it._

_Should I have fought him more on it?_

Slade laughs. “So I did. That offer still stands, by the _way_.” Robin stares at the ground. God, he knows who Bruce is, he knows who Robin is . . .

“How long?” he asks desperately. “How long did you know . . . my name?”

Slade approaches slightly, one foot in front of the other. “A very, very long time, my boy.”

Robin’s head shoots up to look Slade in a bright blue eye that shows no hint of dishonestly—though, he supposes, if anyone could lie like a pro, it would be Slade.

_I’ve been holding back_, Slade’s voice echoes.

Robin’s teeth grit as Slade seems to loom larger in his perception.

“I’ve known your name as soon as I started really looking into you and the Bat, _Richard_.” The name sounds unnatural and cold on Slade’s tongue. “I just didn’t need it to defeat you.”

_I’m not defeated! You will never defeat me, Slade!_

“And I need to know your name,” Slade says lightly. “So that I can take it away from you.”

“Take it—?”

Robin recoils from a slap across the face, cheek burning as Slade continues as if there was no interruption. “You see, you belong to _me _now. That was the deal we made, no?”

This time he stares at Robin clearly expecting an answer.

“Yes—it was. Master,” Robin mutters to the floor.

“And so, you have only what I give you,” Slade murmurs. Fingers brush Robin’s chin, tilting it upwards to face Slade’s orange and black half mask. “You are my apprentice, and nothing more. Not _Robin_, not _Grayson_, not _Wayne_.” He leans in, Robin almost trying to move away. “Just _mine_.”

Robin’s breath is coming shallow. His eyes narrow behind the mask.

“This whole escapade cinches the deal,” Slade murmurs. “Batman’s precious protégé stealing from him, for me. A fitting beginning to an apprenticeship.”

Robin settles for glaring at him with loathing he hopes makes it through his mask to Slade’s.

“What’s that look for, apprentice?” Slade leers. “After all, it was a deal you agreed to.”

A deal that Robin can’t renegotiate the terms on nor rescind. He feels something in him deflate. Slade’s got another thing on him, what else is new?

He beats that thought down as far down as it will go. _You have to fight him. _Especially since Slade’s goal is to do nothing less than break him to his will, a thought so cold it makes Robin shudder.

“A deal I’ll obey,” he says, “so long as you hold up your end of the bargain. Keep my friends alive.”

“Well of course,” Slade replies. “You’re the one I’m interested in.”

Robin just stares at Slade as the man moves across the room, hopefully losing interest in taunting him.  Carefully, he slips one of the razor-sharp  _ S  _ boomerangs under one of the boxes. He’s not sure how much good it will do, but . . . he can’t just stand here and let Slade go on with his plans. It’s not who he is. He can’t let it become who he is.

Robin memorizes the spot, eyes flicking over the rest of the warehouse as Slade returns.

He comes back with a glass of water and offers it to Robin. Robin looks down into the glass, eyes flicking back up to Slade suspiciously. “Is it—”

“Drugged, yes. You’ll fall asleep. If you don’t drink it, I’ll hold your nose and force it down your throat,” Slade interrupts, without inflection. Robin stares at him, watches the water, and realizes how thirsty he is.

He downs it all before he can waste any of it, feeling it go cool down his throat. It tastes of something stale. Robin has to take a step forward to keep his balance, nearer to Slade—he falls down and the mercenary catches him easily in his arms. Robin’s last thought is a desire to get away from the uncomfortable warmth.

* * *

Robin wakes up naked.

Again.

Slade’s stripped him, gotten his hands all over him. Robin has never wished for a shower more in his life. Instead, he just rubs the thin sheets against his torso and stares up at the lit ceiling. He’s glad he didn’t hide the boomerang in his uniform. He shudders to think what Slade might do if he found it. _Are you endangering your friends? _he asks himself, anxiety curling in his stomach. Has he forgotten the stakes already, or is it more important to fight back against Slade?

_If I get the trigger, I can secure their freedom for good,_ he reminds himself. No risk no reward. _Do you really think Slade will sit on that trigger and those nanites and never use them?_

_Do I really think that I can deactivate it without Slade finding out?_

Robin closes his eyes.

He’s the leader.

He’ll have to make a decision eventually. Or the lack of one.

* * *

Robin’s marched into the throne room on aching legs. The screens loom in neon, casting harsh light on the both of them. It only makes Slade look more sinister and Robin smaller. Slade plays back fuzzy security footage, flicking lazily at the remote while eyeing Robin. The boy in orange and black jumps and kicks on the screen, kneeling near the lockbox before dashing away. People fall in his wake as he stumbles through the building, finally casting himself off the roof.

“Pathetic,” Slade says lightly. “I thought my training might actually make a dent in your incompetence, but it seems I was being optimistic.”

Robin’s lips twist.

“Do you have anything to say to yourself?”

“I’m sorry, Master.”

“Hm. Not good enough, I’m afraid,” Slade says, his tone one of a teacher _tsk_ing at a naughty child.

_Or a pet_.

Robin shivers.

Slade approaches and Robin braces for another beating. He doesn’t want this, he aches, the drugs are wearing off . . .

Slade hand goes for his mask. Robin’s fingers catch at his face, two quick steps back, hand splayed across his nose and forehead. “No!”

Slade’s hand stops, still hanging in the air. “What have I told you about saying no to me?”

Robin bends under his gaze. “You already know my name, Sl—what point does it have? Just—it can’t do any harm, right? To let me keep it?”

“I think you misunderstand the point of punishment.” Slade’s voice is tinged with amusement. “Take it off, or I will. I won’t ask again.”

Robin’s teeth grit, something painful snaking through him. He wants to say _please_, but he won’t beg Slade. Not for this. Not for—just a symbol. Nothing important. Nothing that means anything.

His hands shake as he lowers them from his face. He can’t bring himself to peel it off himself. Instead, Slade looms over him, fingers gently picking up the edge of the black mask and slowly pulling it off of his face, sweat and dirt coming up with it as it hangs pathetically in Slade’s fingers.

“Open your eyes,” Slade murmurs. His fingers play against Robin’s cheek. Robin’s eyes open, blue meeting blue. The tips of Slade’s gloved fingers linger on Robin’s face.

“Very nice,” he rumbles. Robin grimaces under his touch, eyes blinking in the face of the light and the vulnerability of his state. He feels like Slade is looking right through him, stripping his defenses down with sheer willpower and getting to the core of him, like a man peeling open a mussel to get at the meat inside.

Slade’s fingers leave and Robin tries not to audibly let out the breath stuck in his lungs. “I trust you’ll do better next time,” he says.

Robin’s face doesn’t change, Slade’s lips making a mirthful noise. “There will be a next time. I can’t possibly deny you after you enjoyed it so much, can I?”

“After I . . .”

“No use pretending,” Slade leers. “The suit monitors your vitals. I could hear your heart beating in excitement as you stole for me right _here_.” He taps at one of the screens, splayed in red and green numbers.

“That wasn’t . . .” _That was fear_, Robin thinks, but he refuses to admit such to Slade, instead staring at him with twisted lips.

“It’s alright, my apprentice,” Slade purrs. “You can admit you enjoyed the _thrill _of stealing for me, the adrenaline of getting away from the law. Getting one over on your old man.”

“I hated every second!”

“That’s not what your heartbeat says.”

“I will never _enjoy_ stealing for you,” Robin snaps. “You forced me to take from Batman! Are you crazy? There’s no way I would . . . be _happy _about that.”

“Did I strike a nerve?” Slade murmurs.

“I didn’t . . .”

“Ah, but you did.” Slade grins. “And even if you’re so sure you didn’t . . . well, you’ll learn to _like it_.”

* * *

Robin is pale in the mirror, the place where Slade tore his mask pale and not covered in dirt.

_It would have fallen off soon_, he tells himself, splashing cold water over his face, rubbing it at the bloody bruises on his knees. Anxiety still eats away at him, exhausted and hungry and sleep deprived though he is, churning in his gut. He stays awake, staring at the darkness that falls upward to the ceiling, worrying about Bruce. Robin needs to get a message to him, needs to let him know that Slade is onto him. Onto them.

Robin wants to ask if he knows who Kori and Gar and Vic and Rae are, but it didn’t slip past his lips, fear curling in him. Once again Robin is on the bottom, as ignorant about Slade as he ever was, and Slade is five steps ahead and laughing in his face.

_Would Bruce believe you?_

Robin huffs, turning, trying to bury himself in the sheets. They’re not enough to stave off the cold of the room. Another thing that’s intentional, another part of Slade’s plan to wear him down with not enough food and too much exertion. Robin can already feel his mind slipping, dulling, himself becoming more desperate.

It begins to sink in that he may not ever be leaving. It didn’t seem real before that, before the mission, but now . . . Slade towers over him and knows so much and promises Robin that he will never go home. That he will stay here forever bound to him in the purgatory he’s created.

That he will learn to like it.

Something inside Robin redoubles at the thought. He thinks of the _S _tucked beneath the boxes—a small defiance. A piece of hope. The stakes have been raised so much, so soon, so terribly . . .

And sooner or later something is going to have to break.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I will punish you for every second you fight me,” Slade murmurs.

The days drag by like barbed wire, every one grinding into Robin’s skin a little bit more, wearing him down a little bit faster. Every time he feels the word ‘master’ slip past his lips, every time he kneels at Slade’s feet as the man sits on his throne, Robin feels something in him crack a little bit more.

“I am Robin,” he whispers to himself in the mirror every morning, Slade unable to hear him as he stands so far away. He traces the symbol in his bedsheets, or on his skin, or on the floor, places where Slade can’t see it but Robin can know that the symbol burns in spirit. It feels crazy to do—to have to—but if Robin doesn’t remind himself who he is, who will? _A hero, a Wayne, a Titan_. All things Slade wants to strip from him along with his mask. All things Robin refuses to give up.

Slade never holds back when they train. Instead, Robin falls into bed with bruises staining him, wincing from another defeat. He imagines that he’s getting better. Slade trips him and pushes him into the ground, uncomfortably close. Corrects his technique. Demeans him, lets him go.

_Did you like stealing for me?_

Slade’s voice is in his head all the time now, even in the scarce moments where he’s left alone.

_Did I like stealing for him?_

That’s what his heartbeat said. What Slade says his heartbeat said. He’s the only source of information Robin has and he likes it that way and Robin knows but . . .

The thought climbs into him and worms into his brain and he can’t let go of it. He thinks about Bruce and some days he actually has to stop himself from crying over the feeling of failure he’s created in himself, the fact that he’s unable to live up to what Bruce would want, that he’s stolen from him.

That they think that he’s a traitor.

He hopes they don’t. He hopes they still believe in him. They know him better than this, don’t they? Bruce has to know that something is wrong. World’s Greatest Detective, and all that.

Robin forces himself to believe in it. He doesn’t think he can stomach Bruce thinking he’s been betrayed, and yet . . .

Robin knows without a doubt he would take that pain to save his friends from Slade’s predatory eye and an itchy trigger finger. He doesn’t know how he would do it, but he knows he would.

If Slade forced his hand. It would be another victory for the man, another piece wearing Robin down to . . . what? Nothing at all? Something that obeys Slade without a thought?

_That _is something Robin knows he will not let himself become.

* * *

Days blur in Robin’s mind. He’s been trained to try to keep things like this straight, but time wears him down. Robin is always exhausted from something or another. Slade makes sure he’s always bruised, always hurting, always falling right to sleep despite his anxieties and the fear blooming in his stomach.

_Bruce will save me,_ he tells himself, _if I can’t save myself. _Batman has to be a match for Slade. He’s stronger, or smarter, or faster, than anyone Robin has ever met. Robin privately suspects he could even take down Superman if he tries. He wonders if that part is lingering hero-worship from when he was a child, but he can’t quite shake it.

Robin suspects there’s just something about him that makes you believe that he can do anything, from his eyes that cut to the hands that seem able to unravel any puzzle or bomb. There’s nothing Bruce—the Batman—can’t do if he puts his mind to it, Robin knows.

If it comes to that.

_But it won’t, _he promises himself. He’s been watching where Slade keeps the trigger, the movements he makes. It’s kept in the front left pocket, one from the one on the far left, pulled out whenever Robin does something particularly infuriating.

Slade’s finger hovers over the tip less and less these days, but the jolt of pure fear that goes down Robin’s spine at the threat never changes. The thought of it actually happening is something he can look at with nothing more than pure horror, even as the thought is almost unreal.

A world without his friends seems impossible. Without Vic, or Gar, or Kori, or Rae, the world wouldn’t be _right_. Slade threatens that world, impossibly, more than ever before.

Robin tries to push down his aching dread.

* * *

He almost gets used to it.

Robin catches himself falling into the rhythm of it once or twice, only to curse at himself in the mirror for his complacency. Slade’s words are cruel, his blows hurt, but at least he never attacks without provocation.

Things begin to change—really change—the day Slade drops more than the white cotton exercise clothes on the floor of the room that Robin sleeps in. Robin doesn’t notice it, only grabbing at the cotton and going to the door, as is his usual routine. It’s only when he comes back out to Slade still leaning casually in the doorway that the man’s voice alerts him.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Slade is at ease, yet his huge form blocks the doorway. Robin looks down, nonplussed.

“I . . . “

“On the floor,” Slade says. There’s something in his voice Robin doesn’t like as he turns around several degrees, looking for the offending item. He finds it several feet behind him, curled and black on the floor. It’s almost soft in Robin’s hands as he flips it around. Silver gleams in the pale light—a buckle.

SLADE’S, the plaque declares, engraved. Robin knows how the valleys he would feel if he cared to run his fingers over the workmanship. It’s too short to be a belt. Much too short.

His stomach sinks. Robin turns. Slade stands only a foot behind him, close and silent, eye regarding him with something Robin knows by now is mirth.

“What is this?” Robin asks. His voice is softer than expects.

“It goes around your neck,” Slade tells him.

Robin feels his face burn as he takes a step back. “What—I’m not wearing this!”

Slade takes another huge stride closer to him. Robin has to look up if he doesn’t want to see only the black of Slade’s suit. “Of course you are,” he murmurs. “How else would I show my oh so loyal apprentice who he belongs to?”

The taste of the bland food Slade feeds him burns in the back of Robin’s throat.

_Collar._

“What is—you can’t just . . .” Robin stares at him. _But he can. He can do whatever he wants._

And “whatever Slade wants” is putting Robin in a collar like some kind of . . . _dog_. An attack dog, to do his bidding and put down his enemies when Slade commands. Another fucking symbol. The kind Slade seems so fond of, from the one on Robin’s uniform to stripping Robin of his name.

_Trying to_, Robin reminds himself.

“I’ll put it on for you, if you like,” Slade offers maliciously. “Either way, I’m afraid . . . “

Robin stares down at the thing in his hand. Expensive, silver. SLADE’S. His eyes blink, deprived of their mask, so easy for Slade to read his emotions at a glance while the other man’s face is completely hidden.

_Just take it_, he insists. _Humor him. _Robin’s lips turn down, and he remembers everything else he’s been forced to take from Slade, from the beatings to the “training” to the mockery.

_I can put it on myself,_ is what he means to say. It should be what comes out of his mouth.

It’s not.

“_Fuck you_,” Robin hisses. He throws the thing to the floor at Slade’s feet, inches from the man’s boots. It falls pathetically to the ground with a small clank. Robin rides the unexpected, vicious anger that overtakes him. His foot comes down on it. It stings, Robin’s bare sole on the ground, but he doesn’t care. The foot comes down again as Robin grunts, grinding it into the floor at his heel.

Like Slade’s been trying to grind him.

Robin imagines pushing Slade’s stupid face into the ground, cracking his mask in half, burying that hated _S _symbol forever.

“I thought I’d managed to teach you something, boy,” Slade says. He turns, icy eye narrowing at Robin. “However, if you insist on throwing a temper tantrum, I may have to go with something a bit more _old-fashioned_.”

Robin’s first instinct is to cower at Slade’s anger, to flinch and beg forgiveness. He hates himself for it. It makes his heart burn with fury. “Try me,” he snarls. Robin drops into a fighting stance. He almost forgets how much everything aches from training. Ribs bruise from where Slade fractured them . . . weeks? . . . ago, from where he smashed his _bo _into them yesterday.

Slade’s eye gleams.

A black clad fist comes out of nowhere. It hisses inches in front of Robin’s face. He only dodges because he’s grown used to Slade’s movements, saw the cords of muscle beneath Slade’s black shirt move before he began to strike. Robin jumps back off the collar, arms in front of his face. He lashes out seconds later, blocked by a heavy gauntlet. Slade blocks all the blows he throws with minimal effort, Robin growling at him like an animal.

He’s cut off when Slade’s fist hits his gut. Robin slides back on his heels, choking and trying to breath. Slade approaches slowly, eye piercing the boy in front of him. Robin grimaces, stepping back—

Robin’s sole hits the side of the wall as he sets himself off of it, the bottom of his foot hitting it with a _slap_. The kick hits Slade in the side of the mask, head turning with a crack. The top of Robin’s foot hurts like hell and he hisses as he lands, barely managing to throw a second kick.

Slade sees this one coming. Robin stares into his eye in seeming slow motion as Slade’s hand clamps around his ankle, rough and bruising.

Robin barely manages to roll as he’s thrown, coming to a stop as his forehand slams into the wall. He feels the blow reverberate against the stone, even if his body absorbs most of the impact. Robin growls. Something slips down his forehead, more than sweat—blood. It smears on the wall behind him.

Slade crouches down as Robin assesses the damage, stumbling to his feet. _This shouldn’t be so easy for Slade. _He realizes how weak the lack of food and sleep has made him—how exhausted he is, even from last night.

_Easier to control._

The thought makes him furious. He watches Slade’s fingers close around the leather of the collar intended for Robin, eyes narrowing. “I won’t let you put that—that _thing_ on me, _Slade_.”

It dangles in Slade’s fingers, held lightly before the gloves clench down. “I’m your master, boy. You don’t _let _me do anything.”

Robin hisses, charging at him, twisting his body into the most vicious punch he knows. His feet hurt badly, blood blurring in his vision—

He hits the ground, shockwaves cascading up his hands. Robin realizes seconds later that he’d lost his footing, that Slade had—

Tripped him.

His face burns, pushing himself up only to feel the rough tread of Slade’s boot on his back. Fingers strain against the hard ground, blood dripping from Robin’s forehead to stain it, fingerprints in red on white.

All to no avail. Slade leans down, pressing. Robin collapses against the ground, gasping for breath as his ribs constrict under Slade’s heel. “’m not—No!”

Fingers thread through his hair, clamping down on his scalp. Robin shakes his head viciously, feeling pieces tear out in Slade’s fingers.

“Stop it!” Robin hisses, trying to bend his legs back to kick at Slade’s knees, get any kind of leverage beneath him. He tries to move his shoulders, make it as hard for Slade as possible when he feels the pressure increase as the man leans down. His breath rasps through the mask.

“No.” Slade’s voice is perfunctory, basic. “This is your lesson for today, apprentice.” Robin growls, reaching fingers up to claw at Slade’s hands and try to pry them out of his hair.

“Get your psychotic—hands—AH!”

Slade slams his forehead into the ground a second time and Robin sees stars. He lets out a horrid gasp as a weight settles on him: Slade, straddling his back, knees digging into his shoulder. Robin can barely breath and he rasps for breath, tongue hanging out, air hissing through his teeth.

The rasp of leather against his skin makes Robin’s fight renew all over again, shaking his head. Slade’s hand closes around his throat and Robin gags, scrabbling uselessly at the floor to get away.

“I will punish you for every second you fight me,” Slade murmurs. Robin lets what little air he has out in a yell—

But the leather slides on anyways, slipping through Slade’s fingers, rough on Robin’s neck. It makes his skin crawl, makes him want to scratch at it. Robin puts every ounce of his sapped strength into going against it but it slips across his skin, tightening at the back—tight enough to stay on, light enough not to choke him. Seconds later a small clipping sound. Slade’s grip loosens, Robin coughing onto the floor as his head tilts forward. The floor is cold and slick from his blood, the leather secure around his neck. It seems to bite into the skin of his chin, hanging heavy on his shoulders.

Robin’s anger trickles away into despondency as Slade’s weight moves off him, letting him breathe again. He takes in air as he gets, aching, to his feet. Fingers fumble with the collar. It doesn’t give way to his violent pulling—he’s crimped it, Robin realizes, seconds after trying to make out what’s going on by touch. Robin can feel the leather, hands dancing over the cold letters he knows so well.

_SLADE’S._

Robin shivers, but the disgust doesn’t leave him, just cascades down his body and curls up under his skin, there to stay. He feels his lips turn down in disgust, hatred. Fingers curl, uncurl.

Fingers fist.

Slade is as calm as ever.

Robin yells, charging several feet—

Slade’s finger hovers over the trigger, movements as quick as lightning. Robin skids to a stop.

Everything comes crashing down. The collar seems to choke him as Robins’ fists fall, hanging at his sides. He opens his mouth to say something, reality kicking in.

The anger doesn’t leave, it simply smolders.

“Your games are no longer amusing.”

“I’m sorry, master.” Robin’s eyes close slightly as he grimaces, feeling disgusted. _My friends._

Slade’s fingers hook in his collar, nails painful. Robin’s dragged along, grabbing at the collar to no avail. Seconds later he stares at himself in the reflection of the small mirror. The black and orange mask and form loom behind him, shadowing but not enough to ignore the pale boy in the mirror. He doesn’t look like Robin, or a hero, with bags under his eyes and pale skin and blue eyes that look . . . scared.

Robin blinks, makes his expression fiercer.

The collar just makes him look like a caged dog.

SLADE’S.

He claws at it, the letters scraping under his fingernails. A hand closes around his wrist and draws it down.

“You look very nice,” Slade purrs. His hand lands heavy on Robin’s shoulder and Robin chokes on air that Slade wrung out of him. Robin thinks he might be turning red as he stares down at the dirty sink, longing to wash himself off in it.

Another hand on his shoulder. Robin feels his head hang, fists unclenching pathetically.

“Nobody will be able to mistake you for a Titan now, you know.” Fingers press at Robin’s throat, too close, brushing over the collar. Slade is too close, always too close. “Not for anything but _mine_.”

The thought of anyone _seeing _him like this makes Robin redden slightly. He bites his lip. _Mine_ is almost what he expected to be printed on the collar, but he supposes this is as close as Slade can get.

“Don’t be _ashamed_,” Slade murmurs in his ear. “It’s been inevitable since our rivalry began, apprentice. You didn’t actually think you could _win_?”

Robin’s teeth dig into his lower lip, not quite drawing blood. Slade’s hand caresses his neck. “Answer me.”

“ . . . I still do.”

“Of course.” Slade sounds amused, indulgent, almost. “You know, you’ve been very disobedient today. It’s almost like you _forgot _that it’s only my mercy allowing your friends the breath in their lungs, hm?”

Robin pales, all bravado gone. “N-no. Never.” _Oh god, please tell me—_“I’m sorry, please don’t—I’ll obey you. Master. I won’t . . .” The collar burns on his neck. “I’ll do what you want. Whatever you want.”

“I know you will,” Slade says smugly. Robin seethes. “However, I cannot let such . . . _behavior _go unpunished.”

Robin stares up, wide blue eyes facing him in the mirror, another shock that he doesn’t have his mask. “Please . . . “ He licks his lips. Forces himself not to beg, even as every bone aches from Slade’s abuse. “Don’t . . . not my team.”

“They’re not your team anymore,” Slade sneers. He turns, fingers still hooked uncomfortably under Robin’s collar, chafing the skin. Robin tries to pry him off halfheartedly, stumbling along across the room—

“The Titans—they didn’t ask for this, they didn’t do anything wrong, Master, please, I’m sorry—”

Slade spins. “No, I don’t think you _are_. But rest assured, you will be.”

Robin’s heart drops to the floor. He can’t stop something from choking in his throat, unbidden.

“However, this punishment is for you and you alone. Do be grateful it does not include your friends. That is not a mercy I will be granting again, the next time you attack me.”

Tears are blinked back roughly. Relief is the balm that soothes the anger and guilt in Robin’s gut, even as fear trickles back in.

“Thank you,” he says. It slips past his lips before he realizes it, and too late Robin knows that he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly think it's about time poor robin snapped and fought back a little. i think this is just . . . everything building up and then being released; robin is just anxious and afraid (but not as afraid as he should be)  
unfortunately for him, slade's not very forgiving ;w; . . . and honestly? collars are like, my og kink (hornily but also emotionally). please update ur mental image of robin to a very humiliating collar around his neck.  
also this posted late IM SORRY . . . i was making pumpkin bread :)


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Let go!”
> 
> “No,” Slade whispers, and it echoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a new trend in how slade refers to robin ;) can you find it?

The walls of the complex are bare and white. They remind Robin of the hospital Bruce sent him to when he broke his leg, minus the scent of antiseptic and the inescapable reminders of sickness. This place is colder, without the halfhearted reminders of humanity and comfort. It fits Slade well, Robin thinks. Slade strides along the halls, every inch as arrogant as always, Robin stumbling to keep up. He hurts from the beating. The collar is snug around his neck. It itches.

Robin doesn’t scratch it.

There’s a sense of foreboding as they move along. Robin can’t help his nerves from shuddering, the same feeling when he’d done something wrong and his parents had found out. The waiting for punishment, as if Robin is just a child, and Slade is here to reprimand him.

Like a twisted version of a father.

Like every single thing Slade does, Robin knows that this will hurt. He snarls at himself for lashing out.

_A leader shouldn’t put anything above the lives of his friends._

What kind of leader is he, abandoning his team? _It’s for their own good—_

It’s a line of thinking so circular that it has been eating the end of itself inside Robin’s head for—days and weeks and however long he’s been languishing here under Slade’s fist. He tries to stop the small voices inside his head from arguing and sneering, but they never seem to shut up.

_Failure._

_Coward._

_Idiot._

Each real, terrible—truths? Can that be true? A part of him believes it, stewing in his gut, but Robin’s not even sure if he can trust that any more. Slade always has had a way of getting into his head.

Being unable to escape from him for even a day lets the thoughts that were born in the time preceding his capture scream even louder.

Slade’s code unlocks a door that whirrs open with foreboding. Robin feels the tenseness in his muscles as he walks in, glancing around—he can’t see much until Slade flips the light on. It’s just as bare as the rest of the place, whitewashed stone encircling him as he steps helplessly through the doorway. Robin’s come to the conclusion that the complex must have been built for a much larger group, with so many empty and useless rooms hastily customized for Slade’s manipulation of Robin. Here, in the small place, the only new thing is a pillar. Against it is a strap that, as Slade leads him to it, Robin realizes is for his hands.

“Take off your shirt.”

Robin’s fingers shake against his will as he obeys. He bites his teeth together, hard, reminding himself that he is Robin.

The leader of the Teen Titans, no matter what Slade says. That’s what Robin believes. What he has to.

Fabric flutters to the floor like a white flag of surrender. Slade’s hands catch Robin’s wrists in an uncompromising grip, guiding him upwards.

Robin doesn’t dare resist as straps clamp around him, holding him there. He can feel the air against his back, cold. It raises goosebumps.

_Whipping_, his mind supplies. Old military punishment. Pirates too. Painful, nasty. Leaves scars.

The thought of Slade leaving any more scars on his body makes Robin pull halfheartedly at his bonds, to no avail. He hears Slade’s footsteps echo in the room, moving away to grab something. Robin hates not being able to see him, every sense and muscle straining to make sure he knows where he is and what he’s doing. Slade moves away and then returns—

“I’m afraid that this will hurt quite a bit, my apprentice,” Slade says silkily. “Do feel free to scream. Nobody can hear you but me, after all.”

Robin grits his teeth.

“Twenty-five lashes should teach the lesson, I think.”

Robin’s eyes shut. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want any more pain. He just wants to curl up and go back to sleep and never think about the collar that burdens his neck or the trigger Slade’s fingers curl around ever again.

That’s a luxury he does not have.

“One.” The stern word is all the warning Robin gets before the whip cracks mercilessly through the air. Robin’s skin splits wide along burning nerves, opening veins and blood to air that should never touch it. He tastes blood on his tongue and realizes he’s bitten into it. Blood runs down his back as his legs spread to keep their balance.

“Two.” The pain registers, slipping across the other wound and multiplying the agony. Robin lets out a choking yell that he can’t seem to hold back. His chest slams against the pillar painfully, arms stretching uncomfortably. _Just my height._

“Three.” Air curls through the wounds, burning brands on Robin’s skin. The sting doesn’t leave, only intensifying as Robins muscles move, slashed and cut into by the whip. He tries to relax but finds he can’t—

“Four.” Robin yells loud in surprise and pain and curses himself for letting Slade see his weakness. He finds himself gasping against the pillar, pain pooling salty tears in his eyes. They are blinked away quickly, but not quick enough to avoid the next lashing, the next amused-blank statement of ”Five.” Robin hangs from the bonds, every breath sending pain and blood coursing down his back.

“Does it hurt, apprentice? There’s more where that came from.”

It hurts, all of it, crisscrossing canyons of agony that only build on one another. The whip is heavy and it cuts deep and Slade is strong and his slash is merciless. Every slash seems to make his muscles jump and jerk, slamming him against the wall.

“Six.”

“Seven.”

Tears run down his face. He doesn’t know where he’s getting them—doesn’t want them to be there, wants them to stop. Eyelids squeeze shut with the will to make them stop but they don’t, trickling down his chin. _Weak._

“Eight.”

“Nine.”

He realizes he’s screaming with every crack of the leather, crying out in pain when he can get the breath in his lungs to do so. Blood spills down the back of his legs, even as his knees bend helplessly. Aching shoulders take the brunt of his weight, tugging at the burning lashes inked on his back in blood.

“Ten.”

Any attempt he tries to make to right himself stops when he’s pressed against the pillar again and again, cold on his face. He can feel himself drooling, unable to wipe the warm saliva off of his face. Blood is as hot as the pain that brands him, so cutting that he can’t tell the difference between them.

Fingers curl at his chin, dipping through the tears and sweat as Slade leans in, body heat so close—Robin tries to pull away, pathetically, as Slade whispers in his ear. “Remember, you earned this.” Soft and incriminating and Robin bites his lip to stop a hopeless noise from twisting up from his gut. Eyes press shut as Slade moves back and he braces once again for the inevitable pain as the whip cracks.

“Eleven.”

“Twelve.”

Robin didn’t imagine whipping could hurt this much as he twists and hangs at the mercy of the leather. One of the slashes cuts up to his neck and he arches, hissing, trying to get away from the unstoppable force that tears him open again and again. Rivers of blood wet his back and his hair as Robin shakes his head slightly. Pain courses down his back at the feeling.

“Fourteen.”

“Fifteen.”

He’s sobbing in gasps now, not just tears from pain but tears from distress. Robin’s back is a landscape of ravaged flesh, veins torn open and spilling themselves across pale, bruised skin. The edges of agony twist, skin hanging open as cool air brushes where it’s never meant to be.

All Robin can hear is the crack of the whip, Slade’s smooth voice thankfully lost in the pain and air between them. His heart beats, skips its beats, in the hollows of his ears, like the rushing of the waves. Fingers shake in their bonds, wrists rubbed raw as he flinches with every strike, the sharp sound preceding it only making him more terrified. Lashes crisscross, digging deeper into his skin as they pull Robin apart at the seams, shredding his skin as surely as if it had been run over with spinning blades.

“P-please . . .” The sound is inaudible, should be, but Robin is somehow sure Slade heard it, can almost hear his dark laugh echoing behind him.

Or is that real?

The whip cracks for the second, the third, the thousandth time. Robin screams.

Nobody can hear him but Slade.

* * *

When it ends, Robin can’t feel it.

He hangs there, cold sweat and blood and pain against stone, spit smeared against his face. Robin’s back screams in pain, nerves mercilessly shredded and blitzing signals of agony into his mind. The smell of blood permeates the room, stains every part of Robin.

Rough hands close around his and Robin makes a small noise of protest. The restraints around his wrists are lessened, falling away—

His knees weaken and give out, Robin sliding down the pillar helplessly for several seconds. All he sees is blurry colors, blinking away his tears and pain. Strong hands catch under his shoulders. Robin finds himself face to face with Slade’s orange and black uniform, bruised forehead bumping against his armor. A small, muffled noise of confusion slips his lips. Robin can’t seem to get his mind to work, can’t seem to register anything beyond _hurthurthurt_. He realizes absently that he’s drooling.

Slade laughs softly.

The hands hoist him, pull him forward. “Ah-ahh - !” _Pain_. Slade ignores him, as he always does.

“Shush, pet. It’s all over,” Slade murmurs, Robin barely registering any of the words. Slade half-pulls half-carries him through the door, gripping him hard enough to bruise. Blood drips down his legs and stains his bare feet. The white floor that comes slowly into focus is stained red. He tastes it, too, in the metal of blood and the scent that he knows comes from him.

Slade sets him down on the ground and this time Robin keeps his balance by spreading his legs. He leans a shoulder against the wall and hisses as it strains against his open wounds. Robin’s tugged by his arm again, stumbling into a room so bright it makes him shut his eyes. Legs fold as Slade presses him against the table, making him sit down. He moves near-silently. Robin’s eyes adjust, blinking at the white wall across from him.

Slade is in front of him again. Fingers clamp on Robin’s chin and he shudders but doesn’t resist. The single, ice-blue eye stares into him, head tilted. “It hurts, hm?”

Robin blinks up at him, eyes wide. He nods dazedly. The movement makes it hurt more.

“Good.” Slade’s hands grip Robin’s wrists, fingers easily closing all the way around. He digs into raw skin left by the restrains, pulling Robin’s hands above his head. “Don’t move.” Robin stays obediently, biting an already bloody lip at the pain. He bleeds freely, all over the table, absently feeling it soak his pants.

Slade comes back, winding bandages around Robin’s torso soundlessly. Robin hisses as they touch him, gritting bloody teeth as his ravaged skin is pressed on with rough fabric. Slade makes no noise as he twists the bandages around. Robin feels dizzy as the fabric presses against his wounds, winding tighter and tighter around him. He can feel it pressing in, feel the blood dripping from every facet and collecting in the fabric. The feeling burns, but he feels himself coming back to the present, to the white room, to Slade’s hands on him and dual colored mask staring him down with a merciless, half-interested eye.

“Stand up.”

Robin pulls himself forward on shaking hands to shaking feet, hitting the ground with a painful jolt. He looks up at Slade, the man’s uniform fuzzing and twisting into strange perspective. “Wh . . .”

Robin passes out against the older man, face nearly smashing into his chest. Slade catches his shoulders easily, pulling him up, keeping him off the floor.

* * *

Robin wakes up staring at a white ceiling.

His throat is dry.

He hurts.

Darkness overtakes him.

* * *

_Robin wakes up in darkness._

_It’s not the real darkness, not the right kind. Not the darkness of Gotham City that hides the Bat and his brood and lets them flicker in and out of the shadows with their justice. This darkness pries and twists at him, lapping at the edges of his consciousness and trying to bite into him with teeth of shade._

_Robin stands in the middle of it, staring out at the mass of it—it’s like a living thing. He realizes he’s cold, the place biting into him, and he pulls his red robin jacket further around himself for warmth. He still shivers, stepping forward to get out of the cold and into someplace warmer._

_Instead, silver materializes in front of him, up and down and melted into the ground. Robin looks up, but the bars travel so far up into the sky he can see them connected to the moon, holding him in place. He puts his fingers on them but they burn, and his hands come away bleeding._

_“Dick!”_

_Something swirls beyond the bars, some new darkness, this one . . . not Gotham-familiar but raven-black, down feathers twisting through the air. Two white eyes form the face of a little girl, a girl Robin’s age, with a hood and a cape and pale, pale skin._

_“Dick!” She’s yelling for Dick, for _him_, loud and visible. She comes closer, staring with open eyes, and all Robin can do is wave his hand out through the bars and gesture her over. He tries to open his mouth but he can’t speak._

_The girl turns and wings flap, curling up out of her back. “Dick! DICK!” Shrill voice yells for him, dying in the thickness of the darkness. She looks through him, past him, walks away as the black parts to swallow her up. Robin is left alone, staring through the bars._

_He can get to her if he just gets through the bars, he knows, he can find her and help her and help himself. Robin sticks a hand through the bars but they narrow around his arm, catching at his shoulder—forcing him to stay back, unable to get through it. _But I have to. _Robin knows that he has to, that he can, if he just tries hard enough, if he—if he twists his arm back and pulls in his stomach and flattens his face like Bruce taught him. Boots go through first, slim as paper, and Robin has to take all his concentration to keep his body small. Skin tears and peels as he presses himself through the small bars, torso getting bigger and smaller and gelling itself through. The last bits of Robin’s fingertips merge with his nails as he retracts them into his arm, finally pulling through the horrible silver bars of the cage. He tries to stare around, finding the direction that the girl went in—_

_Robin tries to run after her but his paper-thin legs collapse under him, melted body unable to take the strain as he screams and falls to the ground, through the dark—_

_“Hello, Dick,” murmurs the voice of Slade, and Robin looks up to see the sky split in black and orange, a gash in the middle making way for a mouth—_

_Robin tries to burrow back into the darkness, fall back, but something grabs his wrist—both his wrists, wrapping around as painful as they always have been._

_“Let go!”_

_“No,” Slade whispers, and it echoes, bouncing off the blackness all around them like a chorus. Robin is hot and itching and too close to him and Slade is grinning right in his face, gash down from the sky and stretching into the distance. Teeth are pointed and sharp and drooling, bright orange-red eyes staring without lashes. Robin screams, and screams, and screams, and Slade’s lips come down to Robin’s face and his tongue his hot on his skin and Robin is swallowed whole._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whipping is just belting's mean older brother


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin thinks he would rather die than ask.

He wakes up, and his throat is dry. Robin swallows, almost choking on the lack of any kind of spit, staring up at the too-well lit ceiling.

Everything hurts. It feels like his body is knitting itself back together with five inch needles and Robin can feel every last stroke, every last click of the needles reverberating in his brain. He can’t help a small groan from slipping out between his lips, almost embarrassingly.

The light stays there, buzzing softly, as Robin wonders whether it’s worth getting up to get something and risk the burning pain in his back.

He falls asleep wondering.

* * *

The short rustling of fabric and footsteps makes Robin blink open his eyes, dry and painful. He sees a shadow looming against the white of the walls, truly noticing who it is when the telltale mask comes into view.

“Good morning, apprentice,” Slade purrs.

“How long . . .” Robin rasps, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Twenty hours,” Slade says casually.

“That . . . no, that doesn’t sound . . .”

“Drink.” Robin opens his lips obediently, dropping off his words in his desperation for water. He sputters slightly, swallowing the cool liquid as if his life depends on it—for all he knows, it might. He protests as the glass disappears.

“Ah-ah, you’ll make yourself sick,” Slade murmurs. He sets the glass next to Robin’s bed, firmly out of reach.

Robin drops back to sleep with frustration on his tongue.

* * *

When he wakes up again Slade is gone, his appearance firmly placed as a foggy memory or dream in the back of Robin’s mind. The lights are still on, less painful than Robin remembers. He sits there, staring at the ceiling, until he realizes he’s horribly thirsty.

Robin groans as he sits up, every inch of his back on fire. It hurts just to move his arms, bandages wrapped tightly around his torso not doing much to help with the hurt. He can see blood on the bed underneath him, dark red on off white. Some of it dribbles down his back. Robin tries to ignore the itching feeling.

_It wasn’t a dream_, Robin realizes, steeling himself for the pain to come as he reaches an arm out for the water. It goes down his throat lukewarm, the glass falling carelessly on the bed as Robin gets sick of the pain that reverberates through his torso. As he lays back down with a grunt, he realizes he’s been stripped naked.

Again.

* * *

“I know you’re not asleep, apprentice,” Slade warns. Robin’s eyes flick open instantly, staring at orange and black. A split second of déjà vu—and then it’s gone, back into the depths of his subconscious. All that’s there is Slade.

This time, he’s holding a glass of water in one hand and something that looks like plain oatmeal. To Robin, nothing has ever looked as appetizing. His parched throat is thrown into sharp contrast. “I trust you’ve learned your lesson?”

Robin grimaces. “Yes, master.”

“Good.” Slade leans over him, throwing Robin in shadow as the man blocks out the lights. Fingers brush Robin’s bare cheek. They’re rough, but not in the way the gloves are rough—they’re calloused, slightly warm. Human hands, cupping Robin’s face, something that should be gentle but instead makes Robin’s insides shudder. Slade’s hands. “It’s perfectly normal to forget your place sometimes, and require _correction_. Temper tantrums, however, will not be tolerated.”

Robin’s teeth grit under Slade’s hand. Those are the words he used to stop—the collar, still heavy on Robin’s neck and aching in his heart, now burning.

“How I choose to show my ownership or exercise my authority is none of your concern. Your job is to _obey_—and your friends are always there to help you remember who is the master and who is the apprentice.”

Robin feels his heartbeat in his cheek, under Slade’s fingers.

“Understood?”

Eyes flick to the black clothing that covers Slade’s skin. The words still burn his throat, but they seem lesser this time, more palatable.

“Yes, master.”

“Good. Now—apologize.”

Robin looks at him, mouth slightly open. It closes sharply. The water is held in Slade’s hand, tempting and necessary. His eyes glance down at the pale sheets that thankfully cover his naked form. “I’m sorry, Master.”

Slade regards him. “You don’t sound it. Perhaps another twenty lashes?” Robin’s eyes widen at the words.

“No! No, Master—I’m _sorry_.” This time he is, not for making Slade angry but for fighting, for the pain that burns in his back, for the stupidity of lashing out. The futility of fighting back, here and now, in that way.

His face burns from how easily Slade pulled the words out of him. _Fuck_, his back hurts, little burning rivers trailing down his skin and searing into muscle.

_You can plan, _a voice whispers in his head, _you can fight back in _other _ways. _The sharp object left in Slade’s hideout calls out to him, possibly accessible.

“Don’t let it happen again,” Slade murmurs, fingers brushing the collar as Robin’s teeth clench down. He retreats, thankfully, Robin taking a breath again.

“Now, apprentice, would you like something to eat?” Slade’s voice is laced with something that sets off Robin’s alarms, even as he nods hesitantly.

“Yes, please,” he says softly. He’s tired, angry, doesn’t think he can look Slade in the eye and make him angry again.

_Fear?_

_Is that what this is?_

Robin stares down at the water and the oatmeal that Slade hands him. He doesn’t miss the plastic spoon even as he grabs it in his hand to begin to eat—

Slade’s bare hand grips his wrist, and Robin notices the hair on it is—white? Or is it just the light? His detective’s brain files it away for later, even as he looks up at the mask.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Slade purrs.

“Thank you,” Robin says, after half a second’s confusion, “master.”

“Good boy.”

Robin tries to ignore him as he watches, leers, lords his possession. Robin feels like he can’t even be bothered as he digs into the food, scolding himself for not being aware enough—but god, he’s hungry, he can’t find it in himself to care as Slade watches him shovel down oatmeal like Cyborg.

The thought almost makes him pause his eating but he doesn’t, just presses it down and locks it away and promises himself he will see him again.

It seems so terribly out of reach, now. It _hurts._

Light shines off the bowl when Robin hands it back, gulping down the last swallow of cool water. Slade takes it, still frustratingly expressionless, and yet—if Robin had to guess, he’d say he was smiling. The thought makes him shiver slightly.

He promises himself he’s not afraid of Slade.

Robin’s mind curls in on itself, pressing aside the humiliation and power that Slade exerts at every minute, just to prove that he can control Robin’s activities. Control his body—

But not his mind. Never his mind. Robin folds that part of himself that thinks and that resists and that _hates _deep into his mind, imagining brick walls building up to protect himself from the defeat.

It is a defeat, all of it, the burning pain in his back and his easy submission to Slade’s will—

A defeat that Robin will take for his friends, because he must, because there is simply no other choice.

He finds himself tugging at the collar, rubbing the skin raw, trying to get it off. Robin is glad there is no mirror in the room that he can see himself in, marked by Slade.

_ Owned _, Slade’s voice whispers in his mind.

* * *

The days that Robin spends recovering are barely remembered and hardly counted. What little hope he had left of knowing how long he’s been under Slade’s thumb fades away in his fingers—months, at this point. Months, culminating in an incident he knows that he will have the scars from for the rest of his life. Every movement he makes stretches old wounds and makes them bleed. Eating is painful and unpleasant but Robin pushes through. Slade is giving him enough to eat for once. _Asshole doesn’t want me to die for once_, Robin thinks spitefully as he downs every drink of water that Slade brings him.

The worst part of it all is when he has to use the restroom, once or twice a day—dragging himself out of bed with a hiss of pain and slowly, torturously making his way across the small room to the even smaller bathroom. Robin tries to wash off parts of himself with the freezing, metallic water, but he still feels filthy at the end of it—still bleeds all over his sheets. Every trip leaves him exhausted, curled up naked on the floor with his head spinning, dizziness and pain overtaking him.

Slade might help him.

Robin thinks he would rather die than ask.

* * *

Robin can’t help himself starting when he hears the door open. Slade is always the one to come through—Robin pretends he’s startled because he’s afraid of Slade, because he wants to stay alert, but he knows the truth is that he can’t stop himself from looking forward. Slade is always there with something to eat, to drink, something to keep Robin alive.

_ Dependence, _ Robin’s mind whispers. It does nothing to help. Sometimes Slade makes him ask, or waits there in the doorway, leaving Robin to look at him expectantly with nervousness in his gut. _ Power trip _, Robin thinks, but he knows better. It’s a calculated ploy to remind Robin who holds the cards here.

If Slade wanted to, he could starve him.

The thought creates only a dull chill. Robin has been living with Slade hanging over his head for too long to be truly afraid, now.

Here Slade is, tall as ever, masked as ever—hands still bare and pale compared to the rest of it. This time, however, he comes with a roll of bandages and a water bottle, pulling Robin up easily by the collar.

Robin closes his eyes and grits his teeth, wincing as the pain as he forces himself to stay upright without Slade. His arms support him painfully—even if he knows that it’s not as bad as it was before.

“Raise your arms,” Slade commands. Robin shifts uncomfortably, his winces showing on his face. Slade strips off the bandages without warning him, without delicacy, leaving Robin hissing through his teeth. Snowy-white stained red unpeels onto the ground like some sort of disturbing fruit, curling at Robin’s feet. Slade’s fingers brush his skin, rough and calloused. They feel detached.

Slade examines the wounds. Robin lets out an “_Ow!_” as fingers brush at the gouges, still bleeding sluggishly. Gouges that Slade placed in his skin with brutal, unforgiving efficiency.

“I’m afraid this will scar, apprentice,” Slade says as he pulls out the bandages. He doesn’t sound remotely sorry. “It will serve as a reminder, hm?”

Robin doesn’t reply, just stares at the bandages on the floor. They’re getting it bloody, cold floor. _His _blood. Slade squeezes a sound of pain from him seconds later as he winds the bandages back around his chest. Robin bites his lip, tasting blood from the scab. Why is Slade bothering to take care of him? Making sure he doesn’t die, Robin supposes. Can’t let the apprentice keel over from—blood loss?

“Is it infected?” Robin asks. There’s a small bit of fear shattering in his gut in the silence between them. It dissolves when Slade replies with a neutral, “No.”

That’s some relief. At least the damage to skin and muscle won’t be exacerbated or fester into some of the pictures that Batman showed him—

Robin doesn’t want to think about Batman and the code he typed in so shortly ago—a betrayal. A message, he hopes, if Bruce can get it. Bruce has to have gotten it, has to have _known_.

Has to have believed that Robin would never betray him.

Slade rips tape and presses it against Robin’s side shortly, digging into bruised ribs. Robin winces but doesn’t let himself make any noise. He leans in, mask close to Robin’s ear. Robin freezes.

“You’re welcome,” Slade purrs.

The door closes with a dry slam.

* * *

Robin has time to think when he stares up at the ceiling, back sending burning waves through the forms of his muscles. Moving hurts, agony twisting through his muscles when he attempts it. Push-ups don’t work, because he collapses after ten of them, gasping with exhaustion on the floor. He’s getting stronger.

It’s only so much time until Slade puts him to work again, fighting until he passes out. In the meantime, there is nothing to do but sit and wait and stare at the white ceiling—when it’s not covered in the darkness that Slade brings when he considers it time to sleep. Robin sleeps in the light or the dark, dropping off before he knows it, thoughts blurring into dreams. A bat chases him through a darkened corridor that opens onto the top of Wayne Enterprises, Robin jumping off of the roof—only to forget he doesn’t have wings any more, falling and reaching out to his mother who screams in his face and cries with the roar of the crowd.

He wakes up feeling sick.

This isn’t what it would be like if he was at the tower—if he was there, he would be trying to leave while Kori and Rae pinned him down, and he’d have to fight Gar for the Xbox but would probably just end up half asleep on the couch while Gar fought with Vic about who was winning.

Robin never thought he would miss those screaming noises, but staring up at the ceiling so unsure of his future, cold and alone in a place he knows only Slade is there to see. He wishes he could talk to Kori one last time before he left—

When the last thing he said to her was angrily talking about how he needed to go find Slade. When the last thing he told them was demanding that they follow him to go find _Slade_. When all they had to hear about was Robin locked in his room, searching for _Slade._

That’s the last memory they have of him.

_I guess you’ll have to make some new ones when you get back_, Robin thinks fiercely to himself. He will _not _stay here all his life, will not let the fear that crawls over his skin when he thinks of how long he’s been here become truth. His life is too long to spend it biting back threats under Slade’s thumb.

_Never seeing his friends again._

_I’m sorry, _he whispers.

Robin closes his eyes and thinks of their arguing, smiling, screaming faces. Are they thinking of him? Do they know what happened?

Are they looking for him?

Robin drifts off in a haze of pain, and he dreams of kissing Kori on top of Titans tower while Raven sits at the sun and Beast Boy plays volleyball.

He’s happy.

* * *

The days drag on in purgatory. Robin gets stronger every day, pulling himself across the ground a little easier. Healing is quicker than he might have thought, but he, as always, has no way to tell how much time is passing. The feeling is suffocating and strange but just more of Slade telling him how much power he does not have and does not get. Robin can handle that, can play a part just as well as anybody else.

It’s something Bruce taught him.

Robin thinks he would like to kiss Kori when he gets back. She’s pretty, he can think of her so well, knowing that she’s still there.

That’s what Slade threatens, Kori and Vic and Gar and Rae, the team. Their passion and friendship and loyalty and empathy and caring. He’s taken Robin away and Robin _needs to has to m u s t find a way to get back_—

But can he risk Kori keeling over and screaming as the nanobots eat her from the inside out? Or maybe she’ll just be sitting there playing with Silky and her eyes will go dull and blank and dead, falling limply back on the couch. Maybe Slade will catch her on the way back to her planet, because he knows who they all are now, thanks to Robin and his carelessness. Maybe Kori will die in the air, crashing to the ground and cracking already dead bones on rough concrete.

_That’s silly. She’s not _that _fragile, she’s Tamaranean._

The image can’t leave his head. Would he subject himself to a life under Slade’s thumb to avoid even the smallest risk of it happening? Is it worth getting the team back together, saving Robin from Slade, if they could die?

It’s the kind of decision a leader is supposed to make.

Robin doesn’t know if he can.

* * *

He wakes up and the collar is digging into his neck. The pain is what pulls him out of the dream, something dark and raining and screaming he can’t properly remember. It’s gotten twisted around, putting pink lines in pale skin. Robin tries to get fingers between the leather and his neck to make it more bearable, but it only helps a little. Mostly he tries to ignore the collar—impossible when it’s almost all he wears, when Slade can’t help but brush his fingers over it fondly and dare Robin to protest with his one all staring eye. Robin doesn’t, just sits there softly—sometimes stewing in anger, sometimes too tired to care that Slade is running his fingers over him again and again. Just as always.

This time, it’s a small, uncomfortable fix. Robin has to keep his fingers near his neck to stop it from chafing any more, but if he’s being honest, he doesn’t have anything better to do. The blanket keeps him barely warm enough, Robin huddling under it with only his body for warmth. He can’t curl up very well because of the pain in his chest.

The collar hurts. It hurts more than just skin, seeming to burn into his soul. _Just leather and steel_, Robin has to remind himself daily. He calms himself with promises of home.

_Home_.

Robin reaches under his body, not quite thinking of what he’s doing.

_HOME._

He can feel the lumps in the mattress, the skinny thing giving easily under his hands. He swore he could feel the springs when he slept on it the first night - weeks? - ago. Now, they’re a comfort. Sharp. Dangerous. Robin doesn’t know how he’s going to rely on them, but he knows any kind of metal is dangerous. He knows that he could pick the lock with it, perhaps. Get in and mess with the wiring. Robin knows that Slade will kill his friends if he tries.

But he needs _something. _He needs some kind of assurance, something to rely on.

Even if he’s just pretending to resist Slade’s whims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a bit more mellow than the last ones, but i think that the relationship is important. robin is starting to unwind a little, too. i promise next chapter has action in it!! let me know how this one lands :3


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am Robin,” Robin says to the ceiling, with conviction he doesn’t quite feel.

“I am Robin,” Robin says to the ceiling, with conviction he doesn’t quite feel.

* * *

Slade shows up at the door the day that Robin walks to the bathroom without falling over once, easy and strong. He’s there as soon as the lights turn on, throwing the clothes on the ground with the same awful, expressionless mask.

“Get up, boy.”

Robin stares up at the ceiling with pain echoing through his body. His eyes close, he prays to keep them closed and simply drift away to his dreams again. The light still cuts into them like a pick. Pleas hang on his dry lips, but he knows they will go unacknowledged.

He’s almost too tired to care if Slade catches an eyeful of him, halfheartedly wrapping the sheets around himself as he goes to dress. Modesty isn’t something he’s been afforded, and there’s some part of him that just doesn’t care anymore.

That part scares him a little.

* * *

Robin passes out after what can’t be more than twenty minutes. The wounds on his back tear open, bleeding through the bandages and making the wounds stick to the white outfit. He collapses, gasping for air, muscles failing under him.

He hates that Slade has to catch him.

* * *

Things go back to normal, almost. It makes Robin shudder that he’s almost thinking of this as _normal_, as the backbreaking impossible pace that Slade demands as expected. The pain in his back slowly recedes, even if he can’t tell how long it is. Wounds ache every time Slade hits him.

He thinks he might be getting better, but Slade never says anything except acerbic notes on his style and his posture and his abilities and his reflexes.

“Why did you even bother to try to train me if you think I’m such a _hopeless failure_?” Robin asks him once, when he’s too tired to think better of it. Slade catches his throat by the collar, tilting his head up to look in his eye, breath in his face.

“Because you have _potential_. I don’t like to see it go to waste on someone like the _Bat_. You could be . . . useful to me, and dangerous, in time.” The hand drops. “Now, however? I suggest you get back to practicing the basics you can barely master.”

* * *

Anxiety begins to pool in Robin’s stomach when Slade leads him once again to the shower. He notes that he’s slept well enough to function this time as the water runs over his back, washing away the grime of days. It stings as it pounds down—not that it hadn’t been washed before, but now the pressure makes him shudder. Dried blood pools pink before it’s swept away down the drain, Robin for once not bothering to clean his back using the caustic soap that Slade provides. He just scrubs off the dirt and sweat as best he can, mildly wondering how Slade can stand to be around him. How has Robin not noticed how badly he smells these few days?

He’s getting used to it.

Getting used to all of it.

Robin grinds his teeth as he washes the slime out of his hair. His gel is long gone, and his hair lays in pathetic little strings. Just one more thing to separate him from who he is—who he chooses to be. He tries not to look at himself in the mirror as he towels off, stepping into the orange-and-black costume as fast as he can. So, he was right. What’s Slade going to make him do now? Steal for him?

Real fear pools in Robin’s gut now. Slade can make him steal from his friends to help him, and Robin will have no choice.

And what about _killing_?

Robin shuts the thought out of his mind with a grimace.

Slade leans in the doorway, looking bored. “Don’t waste my time.” Robin is next to him in seconds with a mumbled “I’m sorry, Master,” following him through the cold halls.

Every step just makes the things clawing at his gut worse, reminding him of what Slade made him do the last time this happened. He slows, and Slade pulls at his collar, jerking him along with two fingers against his jugular. Robin gags, stumbling, but keeps walking. He notices his face burning, detached.

The room is as huge and imposing as Robin remembers, the gears whirring in the background, like some kind of huge nefarious machine pumping away at schemes too large for Robin to have any conception of. It makes him feel small, smaller still as Slade steps up the dais to lounge in his throne. Robin steps up behind him. Slade’s eye regards him.

A snap of the fingers. Slade points at the ground at his feet. Robin stares, lowering himself slowly in defeat. He leans against the chair with a sigh, studiously avoiding Slade’s boots inches to his side. It bites into his back painfully, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“Your next mission is of particular importance,” Slade purrs. The tone is not anger, but it sets off Robin’s fear for another reason, for the sheer satisfaction in his voice that Robin knows comes from tormenting him. The screen flicks on.

Right next to the graphs of Robin’s team, the viruses that pollute their bloodstream.

The Titans Tower.

Robin can’t breathe. He just stares, the picture probably taken from a newspaper article, grainy and in poor resolution and nothing like the real thing. There’s a part of him that’s so glad to see it. _Home_. One of the homes that he has, the one in Jump City with his friends. Where his room with the grainy pictures of his parents and the photos of him and Bruce and Alfred where Alfred is only halfway in the frame because he had to run the camera’s time limit, where the pictures of Slade are still up because he was tracking him when he left. He thinks it might be several seconds before he sucks a grateful breath of air back into his lungs, staring at the thing in front of him with pain curling around him.

“This is your target,” Slade drones.

“Please . . .” Robin’s forehead meets a curled fist, the words out of his lips before he realizes what’s happening. _Begging_.

_Maybe I don’t deserve the room-_

“What was that, apprentice?” Slade asks, voice heavy with amusement.

“Nothing,” Robin mutters. Slade makes an amused little _hm _sound that lets Robin know that Slade heard him.

Thought it was funny, because if he hadn’t, he would have let Robin know with his fists.

“You know the codes and passcodes,” Slade says, with all the assurance that he exudes. It’s not something Robin can deny, and he stares dead-eyed at the tower that his friends live in. Cy designed it, and Robin has the override codes that only Cyborg has the override-overrides to. He had them built into the system, in case something happened and he needed them to save his friends.

He didn’t think that he would ever be on the end of that scenario, but he should have expected it. _Prepare for everything, _Bruce’s voice reminds him, and Robin shrinks down from the angry glare. _How could I have expected this?!_

“I want you to go into the vault and get me the latest thing you took from Dr. Light—the spectrum processor. It’s small enough you can carry it with you, and go in and out very quickly. You’ll enter through the air and exit off the roof. No more than ten minutes, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Master.” He barely remembers anything about the battle with Dr. Light—except that Cyborg seemed very interested in the technology involved. Robin doesn’t need the blueprints this time, but Slade gives them anyways. He seems to like to rest on ceremony sometimes. Robin wants to ask how he got them, but it doesn’t seem worth it to invite more of that voice, or to risk angering Slade, even though he doesn’t know what about it he would find to be mad about. Slade seems in a good enough mood not to mind, now that Robin thinks of it, can almost feel the grin behind the mask.

_When did I become so attuned to his moods? _Sometime in the months he’s spent with him, with the only other person, threatened with horrible violence. Robin’s back aches. _I wanted to know Slade. _Now he does, in ways he’d never imagined (he smells like spice and artificial pine and sweat and danger and his fingers are like a vice and he sounds like a smooth vinyl record up close and his fingers are rough like used sandpaper and three times as mean.)

When Slade hands Robin the glass of water to be knocked out, Robin downs it obediently, without a second thought, gaze fixed on the half and half mask, staring into the icy eye until black blurs his vision and he crumples.

* * *

_You’ll return to the warehouse when you’re done_, Slade had instructed him, and the tiny part of Robin that still feels . . . hopeful, had reared its head and reminded him of the spiked weapon under the boxes, imprinted in Robin’s prodigious memory. A weapon, _Robin’s _weapon, even as it is carved with razor edges in Slade’s cruel _S _shape. The rest of the weapons adorn Robin’s person. Twin blades hang heavy on his back, untouched. Razorangs and bombs with Slade’s insignia fill the belt, matching the symbol on his chest.

The symbol on the collar that shudders on his neck, reminding him who he’s working for. _Who owns you_, Slade’s voice whispers, hated.

“Get ready,” Slade says into his ear in real time, lodged tinny in the earpiece that Robin wears. Robin braces himself in the wind, whirring past him at god knows how many miles per hour as he hangs on the precipice, staring down at the top of Titans Tower belong. Robin chose the spot himself—surrounded by water to make it more difficult for enemies to sneak up on them, just close enough to the city to be a good operating center and just far away enough not to be bothered. He’d scouted out at least ten sites before the building began. Going in through the top was something he’d considered, even set up the Titan’s security for, but Slade’s stealth plane is hanging above the Tower too steadily for even Cyborg’s machinations to detect them, skilled as he is.

Robin hopes he can. Hopes he knows they’re coming, even though he shouldn’t hope, even though he knows in his mind that everything needs to go smoothly for his friends to live.

Hope is the one spite he has against Slade, and he pulls it up from inside himself to keep himself warm as the air moves coldly past him and the chills of the assignment he’s taking pool in him.

“Three . . .” Slade’s voice says, smooth in his ear. “Two . . . One.” Robin sucks in a deep breath of air. “Jump.” Robin steps over the edge.

He’s falling, air whipping hard against his body so hard it hurts, stuck in a tunnel where he can barely move his hands. Robin’s limbs are bulky, difficult to move, and his muscles act strangely in the absurdly high pressure environment. The top of the Titans tower rushes towards him, outlined in slightly fogging goggles.

Robin considers never getting into position, simply letting himself fall until he crashes, broken, against the pavement, a mess of blood and bones fighting through skin and viscera.

He discards it absently, and thinks that the thought should disturb him more than it does. Instead, it just sounds dully in his mind like everything else. His limbs twist anyways, thumb clicking at the button on his palm. The suit sprouts webbing between his arms and legs and shoulders, slowing his rate by several hundred percent, and Robin spirals down.

An intruder in his own home.

Black boots hit the ground hard, Robin almost biting through his tongue again as he rolls across the concrete. A quick inventory afterwards tells him nothing is injured, just bruised. Almost as bruised as he gets from Slade’s abuse. Robin gets to his feet slowly, pressing a finger to his earpiece. “Landed.”

“Acknowledged. I’ll be watching you, _my _apprentice.”

Robin lets the words echo in his mind.

He remembers standing up on this roof with Star, a month or so before the incident with Slade, laying back on the concrete and stargazing. Star had managed to tear him away from whatever his project at the time had been—nothing so important as his work with Slade. She’d dragged pillows up from the common area and set them on the roof before the last of the summer heat dwindled away. It was high enough that they could look up and see the stars spread across the sky like the sugar that Star sprinkles liberally on her pasta and look down to see the city lights blinking up at them like Tamaranean eyes.

_“This is actually pretty nice,” Robin found himself admitting. A pause. “Best view in the city.”_

_“I find Earth has become much more dear to me than I have expected,” Starfire says. Green eyes look sideways at Robin, who quickly flicks his own away to pretend like he wasn’t looking. “The places . . .” Fingers in a small hand lay between the two of them, like an offering. “And the people.”_

_“The team is . . . “ Robin begins, and then stops. Looks up at the flickering stars. “I’ve, um.” He doesn’t look at Star. His own hand, glove slipped off minutes ago, stretches out between them—finding nothing, to his own embarrassment. Robin moves to pull back, but a strong hand wraps around his own, fingers intertwining. Robin takes another breath of heady night air. “I—didn’t think the stars could be so pretty. Or . . . the things that come from them.”_

_Fingers squeeze him._

_He squeezes back._

“Get moving.”

Robin all but jumps at Slade’s angry tones, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck only go down when he remembers that Slade is far away from him. For now. Fingers curl into fists as Robin prepares to sneak into one of the only places he has ever called a home like an intruder.

To steal from his friends.

Robin will have to get in and get out, because he knows he can’t face them. Not like this, not with . . . everything he is. Everything he’s _not_.

The door is locked, but Robin gets in with a quick scan of his thumbprint. There are override codes, but they would give away his identity quicker than using his thumb would. Nothing moves, the time of day just late enough that everyone would be getting to bed. Unless Beast Boy was on a particularly tough gaming marathon, everyone would be asleep—or, at least, in their room, in Raven’s case.

Lights flick on as Robin moves down the corridor, everything coming back to him with a pang. Being back here almost physically hurts, like the whipping scars are in more places than just his back, like Slade carved the Grand Canyon in his soul and tried to wrap it back up with bedsheets. Right to the left is the exercise room where he should be sparring with Cy, and to the right is the room he can curl up in. The urge to go, so simply _look_, is almost overwhelming—but Robin knows that if he goes, he won’t be able to control the lump in his throat and that the ever-present demon lodged near his eardrum wouldn’t let him. Instead, he steps forward, trailing his way through the rooms to find the trophy room. (Gar had suggested they make a maze to make sure intruders had trouble getting in, but Robin had shot him down with a more intuitive setup instead.)

Every nerve is raw to the cool air, but Robin sees nobody around as he moves the short distance. The tiled floor could have carried his sound a long way, but Robin knows how to move on it. He knows every bit of the place. The door to the security chamber comes up huge in his vision. Robin checks behind the corner before going up to it, feeling grossly vulnerable.

Robbing his friends. Only his second crime, against the people he cares about and the law that he claims to uphold. Fingers shake as he scans the thumbprint. The door opens loudly, Robin wincing and resisting the urge to scuttle off to the shadows before anyone sees or hears him. Bright lights meant to show off the objects in the collection shine down on top of him, and Robin has to quickly slam the button on the left to make sure that Beast Boy’s voice welcoming all visitors to the museum doesn’t blare out of Cyborg’s old speakers. The door swings closed, but the lights remain, hot on Robin’s skin and the black and orange that covers him. He can’t remember the last time he was here, specifically. Robin saved the evidence that Slade left in his office, in a box or pinned up on his wall where he could see it. All that’s here is the things taken from smaller villains, in cases or on walls or wherever they’d seen fit to put it. It’s well organized, thanks to Robin and Raven’s efforts.

Robin’s eyes comb the placards for the spectrum processor. It’s recent, so he doesn’t have to go far to find it, finger following the words. Eyes flick up to the top of it, where the instrument should be—

Nothing there.

Robin’s stomach slams into the ground at his feet as he grimaces, looking on the floor and waving his hand over the space on the pedestal where the small device should be. Nothing.

“It’s not here,” he says.

“You won’t be leaving that tower without it,” Slade replies almost casually. Robin can feel the threat in his voice through the line. _Fuck._ Robin glances around the room, not expecting to find anything. Where could it have gone?

_Cyborg. _The answer comes to Robin after only a few seconds’ thought. Robin’s fists clench in frustration as he remembers how Cyborg had mentioned wanting to take a look at it when they brought it in from Light. _He must’ve taken it to his workshop. That’s not good at all_. The workshop is a whole level down, making it much easier to get out, but Robin knows he has no choice. He’d hoped not to have to go down to the next level.

Robin rarely uses the elevator, instead preferring the stairs for their speed. He can’t use it now, risk being slow and making more noise. He pads across strangely empty rooms, feeling as if he should be in his pajamas getting up for a midnight snack, overdressed for the occasion. Nobody makes a sound, and Robin starts to relax slightly as he slips down the stairs and into the main room. Beast Boy isn’t there snoring, like Robin was worried he might be, but the detritus from his snacks and a pizza neatly polished off are left in the room.

It’s only a day old. They ate it, the day before this. Robin’s friends are alive, eating, playing, saving the city, just as real as they were without him. It all seems so distant, but it aches in the canyon in his chest, torn open at the horribly familiar scene. Every step Robin takes through it pulls at stitches, sending something jabbing into his guts. Nails press into his palms even through the fabric of his gloves.

_Slade will kill them._

_Slade will kill your friends._

It’s a twisted mantra that flows through his mind as he clings to the shadows and steps into Cyborg’s machine shop. Robin doesn’t understand most of the things in the place, but he can bet he understands them better than most people. Wires twist, some crackling with small currents, machines vivisected and their parts put on display. It smells of engine oil and Subway.

Robin steps in, taking care not to step on any of the discarded things on the floor. He sees the T-car’s engine on the workbench, stepping past it to see the things behind. _There. _The spectrum processor. It looks like Cy hasn’t taken it apart yet, which is lucky, because Robin wouldn’t know how to begin to go about putting it back together for Slade. His hand passes a half-eaten sandwich as he reaches for the device. It’s lighter than he expected . . .

Wait. A _half-eaten _sandwich? Vic would _never _leave a sandwich half-eaten. Not if he could help it. Which means . . .

The sandwich is fresh. Robin can smell it.

_Fuck._

“Turn around,” booms Cyborg, behind and out of sight. “Hands up.” The telltale sign of his canon powering up hums in Robin’s ears and thrums in the machine station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the cliffhanger!!! :3 this is my favorite arc it's where things really start to heat up so stay TUNED!! i almost forgot it was sunday but i can't do that to you guys it would be too mean :/  
this is also where things really start to diverge from the show! which is fun for both of us :)


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS STILL TECHNICALLY SUNDAY FUCK ME  
also! this wednesday/thursday there's going to be another chapter posted - an interlude, so it won't be about slade or dick, but we'll get some new povs :3c

Robin’s heart pounds in his ears, a startled banging against his eardrums. His fingers turn white against the device, feeling caught in the sights of Cy’s canon.

“Not a word,” Slade purrs. “_I’m_ your master now.”

Robin grits his teeth. Before Cy can say anything else, Robin is dodging and flipping against the wall. He’s counting on the fact that Vic will not want anything to happen to the machines in his shop, and sure enough, the bolts don’t come. Robin flips and ducks between Vic’s legs before he can see his face, before Vic can see his. He aches, even fighting against his friend like this. Slade’s earpiece is heavy in his ear. Hands shake as they hold the device.

Robin’s legs move as fast as he can, shooting down the hall towards the game room. He can hear Cy behind him, hear the cannon booting up, and this time there’s nothing stopping Cy from shooting at him. Robin throws himself to the side to avoid the blast—but he’s wrong about which one it is. He’s on the floor hissing in pain as thirty decibels of sound pounds directly into his head. The earpiece crackles painfully. Robin can’t hear Cyborg’s heavy footsteps approaching him but he knows that they’re there. He crawls pitifully forward along the floor, pressing both hands to his ears as hard as he can to lessen the ringing as he gets up, a hand against the wall for balance.

_I have to get up to the roof._

“Halt or I do it again,” Cyborg threatens. His voice is dangerous, a tone that’s never been pointed in Robin’s direction before, only at enemies and people trying to hurt other members of the Titans. It hurts something in him.

“Attack,” Slade hisses in Robin’s ear. “Attack or I press the button.” Robin grits his teeth, head aching as he spins to face Cyborg. Robin’s face is hidden in shadow as he throws razorangs from his fingers—to the weak spots he’s heard Cyborg complain about so many times before.

Robin’s off down the hall, half-cocked steps picking up speed before he sees the results. Nothing hits him in the back, knocking him to the ground before he rounds the corner, and he knows that he’s safe—

The alarm blares, so loud it makes Robin flinch. It’s the same thing that’s woken him from restless sleep to an invasion at the tower so many times before, rattling through his bones without respite. Red casts his face and the hall in sick light as Robin bounds back up the stairs with all his effort. If he can just—

A crashing noise behind him, the sound of crumbling architecture. Cyborg is catching up. Robin’s fingers clench around the device in his hand. Feet pound across familiar paths, winding their way back to the beginning. _Back to Slade. Running back to Slade. _The thought hurts, but there is no other choice. Breath is puffing in his lungs, legs moving in rhythm, Robin pushing down the pain in his muscles and the cords tightening around his heart with equal fervor. Something aches in the back of his throat, and he chooses to pretend that it’s the exertion he should be perfectly used to.

Robin skids to a stop before the longest hallway, panting. The tower is _big, _easier to traverse when thinking of the latest assignment or talking with friends. Slade’s training has taken his toll on his young body, feeling weak against the wall.

“Move, boy.” Robin’s up again, running at breakneck speed. He has the advantage that nobody knows where he’s going. The floor moves past his feet in a blur of off-color. Robin looks up, skidding instantly to a stop at the sight in front of him.

“Robin?”

Robin’s mouth doesn’t open on command. It’s all he can do to take in Starfire in front of him, hands powering down from an attack that doesn’t come, still dressed in purple pajamas with slightly too-long sleeves. “X’hal! It is really you!” She rushes him, arms outstretched, and Robin doesn’t have time to parry before he’s wrapped in an embrace of inhuman strength. She smells like sweat and sleep and the last brand of floral conditioner she picked up from the store. The warmth of another person so near to him is a shock to Robin’s system. Blood seems to flow to his extremities for the first time in months, fingers curling as his hand rests awkwardly on Star’s hip, warm skin under thin fabric.

“Star . . .” Even her name is foreign on his tongue. It feels like a warm drink. Star’s face pulls back to get a good look at him, eyes shining.

“We thought you . . . you had been taken away!” Robin’s mouth opens slightly. Her eyes take in his clothing. “What is it you are wearing?” She asks, and the thread of suspicion that runs through her voice twists the needle into Robin’s soul.

“No touching,” Slade says sharply in Robin’s ear. Sheer horror tumbles through him, forcing nerves down to the ground.

“I—Star—” He gently pushes her away, prying her fingers off him, regretting it the instant her touch leaves his skin wanting for warmth and contact. Fingers fist to try to convince themselves they’re still holding onto her.

“Robin?” Her voice is more hesitant now, doubting, taking in the orange and black, the hated _S _insignia—

The collar that burns around his neck.

Robin all but pushes her away, eyes going to the white wall, the floor, anything else, face falling in shame. He pushes past her harshly, trying to get moving again, shoulder against hers. Fingers trail along his arm as he pushes forward.

“Robin!”

Fingers close around his wrist. Robin doesn’t get a chance to look behind him as someone new skids around the corner, tripping slightly as he stops short. Beast Boy’s mouth falls open in surprise. “Robin?”

Robin tugs halfheartedly on his wrist in Starfire’s grip, feeling panic rise in him, almost swamping him. Beast Boy’s face is shocked and almost-relieved, right up until he takes in the uniform that Robin wears.

“Wha . . .”

“_Move_,” Slade snarls in Robin’s ear. Robin flinches, yanking himself out of Star’s halfhearted grip, running towards Beast Boy. He finds himself facing the stomach of a huge ape, trying to weave around it with little luck.

Resonant steps bring Cyborg back up the stairs and Robin curses himself for getting distracted.

“Got you,” Cyborg says triumphantly.

“Robin!” Star is behind Robin now, inches in the air from the sound of it, too close. “Robin, please speak to me. Why are you wearing Slade’s symbols?”

Robin grits his teeth. He could stop now, apologize, take Star in his arms and stop their stares and gazes and the hesitation in their eyes. There is not a single part of him that wants anything more.

Yet Slade’s finger hovers on the trigger. Robin aches, every last bit, as he feints and ducks around Beast Boy’s configuration. _I’m the leader. I have to make decisions like this. Decisions for their own good. The good of the team._

He’s running down the hall, a strangled call of “Robin!” echoing after him and through his soul, feet pounding once again as he makes another turn, easy memorization in his familiarity. His hand clutches the hated device. Robin almost runs smack into the dark barrier of energy that crosses the hallway.

“Robin,” Raven says. The energy catches, just enough opening for Robin to try to slip through—

He crashes to the ground with Beast Boy’s body on top of him. The weight falters as he grows smaller, Robin getting up as best he can to throw him off. Gar yells in his ear.

“Robin! Hey, Robin! What’s your problem?”

“Attack them.” Slade’s voice brooks no room for rebellion, as always. “Attack them, unless you want them to _die_.”

Robin squeezes his eyes shut as he stands up and slams Gar against the wall, hands still clinging to his shoulders. Beast Boy lets go with a yell and Robin flips over Kori, sneaking up on him, finding himself with his back against the wall. He doesn’t give them or himself a chance to react as he flips, spinning in the air, landing on the other side of the passage. Robin tries to double back, running past Cyborg, who reaches out to stop him with one metallic hand. To Cy’s surprise, Robin digs the razorang into the processors in his arm with a hiss that sends electricity sputtering along his whole forearm.

“What the hell—”

Robin brushes past him, but fingers close on his arm. He’s pressing down and wrenching the hand away from him on instinct. Robin has Kori in an armlock, twisting in a way that has to hurt, pulling another razorang out of his belt. She yells in pain and Robin freezes, letting go instantly with an apology on his lips before Raven’s energy flies at him with a growl. Robin hits the wall, feeling his back where Slade whipped him ache with nearly healed wounds. He tries to weave around them again—

“I said _attack_,” Slade growls. “Or my nanobots eat them alive. Do you want to be responsible for the death of your former friends, boy?”

Robin’s fingers clamp around his prize, jaw clenching so hard that it’s almost cramping. All of this goes against every atom of his being, but he has no _choice_. There is no other option but to do as Slade says, because no matter how much it hurts, the alternative is worse.

Robin knows every single weakness each one of his friends has. It’s part of his training. Batman made him list the weaknesses and strengths of every member, the parts that could be exploited and improved. It was an exercise meant to improve his strategizing, but at the same time, Robin suspects that it was meant for something like this: fighting his friends, if one of them were to go rogue or become mind controlled. It’s come in handy once or twice, but now Robin wishes he had never learned it, never observed so closely as to know every little spot he can poke and prod at. When he was Red X, it was what helped him get close to Slade in the first place—

Now, it’s going to be used against him. Robin hates every little bit of it, every little bit of _himself _for facilitating it, but he jumps forward with his hands raised anyways.

It’s Star who charges at him first. “Robin, you must listen to me!”

She’s the hardest to beat in a straight up sparring match, and Robin has ended up on his back more times than he cares to remember. That just means he has more practice fighting against her. Star is weak on her left side, and Robin ducks there, dropping the razorang to pull another tool in his belt. The moves she pulls aren’t even meant to attack, which makes it all the easier to pin the small explosive to her chest and set it off seconds later. Star goes flying, landing against the opposite wall with a crack that tears into Robin’s heart, eyes going wide before she slumps. Beast Boy yells. “You stay away from her!”

Robin tries not to hear him as he spins to take on the next opponents: Beast Boy and Raven.

Raven is the hardest. She’s got power, more than she lets on, but she can’t cast any spells if she can’t make any _noise. _Robin runs at her, the heel of his hand colliding with her sternum, pushing every last bit of air out of her lungs. Raven looks at him with wide eyes and they seem to linger there together in the seconds before she doubles over, gasping helplessly for breath. Beast Boy tackles Robin and he goes down, again, _hard_, the wind knocked out of him.

“What’s gotten into you!” Beast Boy yells in his face, too close to him, the look on his face when Robin shoves a razorang against his wrist turning to one of sharp pain. Robin’s heart turns. His soul seems to scream. Slade’s earpiece twangs in his ear, a reminder of the deal that he’s made. The lives on the line.

Beast Boy collapses on top of Robin. Robin shoves him off, surprisingly light, rolling to face Cyborg. One of his arms is disabled, but he aims just as well with the other one. Robin grits his teeth, razorang aimed at the middle of his cannon—but no, that would explode in his face. Do permanent damage. Instead, a flick of his wrist sends it crashing into one of the circuits in Cy’s chest, sliding along it with a sick noise of slicing machines and shredding circuits.

“What the—”

Robin’s running, flying along at breakneck speed, a heaviness he feels as if he will never shake beginning to settle on his chest. Here he is, running away from his friends straight into the arms of his most hated enemy. It itches at him, making no sense to his mind at all as he forces himself to move along. All he can remember is how Slade has beat him at every turn, how Slade knows his name and the names of his friends. Anger curls in him, hatred at the fact that he hasn’t been able to stop this, and he feels his hands shaking even as he runs. Someone pounds after him—Robin doesn’t know who it is, most likely Beast Boy, as he twists around the next corner. There’s no chance of him getting to the roof without getting caught.

Robin knows what Slade would do to his friends if they did catch him, if they were in the way of Robin delivering Slade’s device. He pauses, panting, exhaustion burning in his muscles too much for the exertion he undertakes. Starfire’s cry echoes in his mind. Raven’s betrayed eyes bore into him.

_Focus. Concentrate. _Robin’s mind moves sluggishly, refusing to tell him everything he needs to know all at once, as if he’s in the twilight between sleeping and waking. All he can focus on is the guilt that hangs in his chest.

“Move,” Slade snarls in his ear. “You can’t fool me, boy.”

“No,” Robin hisses, fumbling with his belt, hearing the footsteps behind him. He remembers that this room is on the outer circuit of the building, meaning that if he just . . .

The explosive he pulls out of the belt is heavier than the one he put on Star, and it attaches to the wall with a small blinking light that Robin knows is counting down. The obnoxious _S _symbol is branded onto it, just like everything else.

Someone rounds the corner. Robin flattens himself against the wall, closing his eyes seconds before the room fills with smoke and the _S _symbol goes up in a crash of smoke and tumbling architecture. Robin throws himself through the smoke, relying on his instincts, jumping through the hole he made in the wall.

For several seconds, falling feels a lot like flying.

Then he hits the water.

* * *

“Pathetic.”

Slade’s voice rings in the room. Robin shivers from the cold water he was pulled out from, curling in on himself, trying to become smaller in the face of Slade’s rage. He’s not furious, the anger merely simmering beneath the surface of his skin. Robin can practically feel the displeasure radiating from him, and every sense of his screams danger at the sight.

“You let yourself be caught in a place you know so _well_. How will you do in environments where you _don’t _know what’s going on, hm?” Slade’s posture is tense, arms not quite crossed, always at the ready. Robin can’t help but eye the weapons that Slade’s taken from him, blooded swords crossed andrazorangs on the table. They can’t do him any good against Slade now. As covertly as possible, his fingers flick to the razorang he hid on his last mission, which should be under the same box in the same warehouse, just feet away from where Robin stands. Sudden anxiety jolts through him that Slade has found him out—but no, if he had, Robin would be tasting his fist at this point. The razorang is palmed in leather gloves.

“The only thing you did right,” Slade continues, lower, “Is take on the people you claim are your teammates. You fought them on much like I would. You used their weaknesses against them. Very good, _my apprentice_.”

Robin’s anxiety releases slightly at Slade’s compliment, something else rearing up in his place as he stares blankly at Slade, pain turning his hands to fists at his sides and making him stare down at the floor, not meeting Slade’s eyes. “You forced me to.”

“I encouraged you to unlock your potential,” Slade corrects. “You were the one who took them all down so _handily_. You thought about hurting your friends before me, didn’t you? You knew how to do it so _well_.”

Robin bites his lip to stop himself from saying something that he might regret. Star’s yell of pain plays over and over, seeming to overlap Slade and take over his voice, replacing it with yells of pain from someone Robin cares about so much it hurts.

“I think it’s time you gave up on any silly fantasies of being a hero, so tell me,” Slade hisses, “why is it that I have the need to keep reminding you of your _place_?”

Robin’s breath catches as Slade’s hand goes to the pocket that contains the trigger. His eyes widen behind the mask he was allowed to keep for the mission, mind going back to the friend he had just seen, albeit in pain, pulling them close to his heart. “_No_ . . .”

“Oh, my boy.” Slade’s voice is cruel. The trigger is in his fist, Robin’s eyes caught on it and unable to let go, burning into his mind. “You aren’t allowed to say ‘no’ to _me_.”

“I’m sorry,” Robin’s breath catches. He knows Slade is mocking him, but he doesn’t know what else to say to placate him. “Please . . . master, don’t hurt my . . . old teammates.”

“That’s more like it,” Slade purrs. The trigger is dark in black gloves. “Know your place.”

Robin’s eyes shut. He half expects his face to burn, but it doesn’t, simply accepting what Slade says. All he can see behind them is Star’s betrayed face, Beast Boy’s angry voice, everything he’s done to his friends in the past hours. He has hurt his friends for Slade. He was _right there_, in his home . . . and he walked straight out, right under Slade’s waiting heel. Right into his leash, like a dog.

_Not a hero_.

Then what is Robin? _Who _is Robin, any robin, without his friends and his family beside him? Lost and alone, and suddenly Robin realizes there’s a part of him that’s here, with Slade, that expects to never return.

That expects it will be here forever.

Lost.

Alone.

Slade will never give him back.

This may have been the last time Robin ever saw his friends.

The trigger gleams in Slade’s hand, light glinting off of it, as he turns slightly, looking towards the weapons.

Robin’s fingers clench so tight that the razorang still in his fingers cuts through the fabric of his glove. Bright pain flares in him, welcome clarity.

_Do I really want to live without my friends?_

The thought makes him want to curl up and sob and scream and the sheer horror of it makes him shudder through, and yet they already hate him, already have seen what Slade has made him do, and it’s too late. They know what he’s done. They’ve seen him be a failure of a leader, a hero.

He only prays he hasn’t lost them already. Every nerve is alight like the tip of a match, struck by a vicious hand. The bloody razorang slips between Robin’s fingers, headless of the pain, still hidden slightly behind his body. Slade turns, moving, just the right angle—

Robin feels himself aiming in slow motion, a skill perfect by hours of throwing batarangs at Batman’s behest, the coordination skills built by years of gymnastics, as he raises his hand. Slade turns to look at him, eye widening, but Robin doesn’t aim there. The razorang is heavy in his fingers yet perfectly balanced, flicking his wrist towards the trigger that rests in Slade’s hand, not tight enough not to fall. 

Light illuminates the razorang as it flips head over blade, in the hated  _ S  _ shape now bent to Robin’s own ends. It hits right under the button of the trigger, and Robin can almost see its trajectory before it flies out of Slade’s hand, Slade trying to move to catch it but failing. 

Robin is flying through the air, flying past him, jumping headfirst towards the thing that will save him or damn him, the thing that’s lead to the hell that’s been these past few months and torn him from his family. The thing that plans to tear him from his family for good.

Robin will not let that happen.

Robin cannot let that happen.

His fingers reach out, tips grasping in midair at the hated trigger. Slade’s boot makes it there first, black treads lashing out with blinding swiftness to kick at the trigger. It spins off the left. Robin’s fingers miss it by inches as he crashes down on the cold warehouse floor, watching it roll and hit the bottom of the box. He can hear his panting breath as slim fingers, cloaked in black, reach out, one arm folded under himself to propel his too-heavy body forward.

The boot, steel-toed military style with a cruel tread, catches out of the corner of his eye and Robin watches it slow seconds before it crashes down on his fingers with all the force that Slade can give it. Robin screams, feeling bones snap and shatter through his, hearing the sick crunching noises of his knuckles being crushed. His fingers bend out of place under the pressure, nerves pinched against bone that presses through the skin, white on the cold floor with nowhere else to go. The pain reverberates up through his arm, the matches at the top of his nerves burning white hot, tears blurring his eyes. Slade’s black boot comes off his hand, the trigger just beyond it—

Robin can still see it—

His mangled hand reaches forward, every finger bent out of place. The hand twitches unnaturally, nerves twisted around, sluggish dark blood spilling from the cracks in the crushed formation. Every movement is agony, curling with pain that never recedes, only a knife prying him open from the inside and flaying at his nerves.

_My friends._

_Save . . . Kori . . ._

Robin grasps at it, fingers not quite able to close, real tears of pain flowing down his face as he tries to reach, not quite there—he’s going to reach, he knows he’s going to get it, and then—

Slade’s gloves fingers reach around it, picking up the trigger and nestling it back into his palm as if it was meant to be there. His thumb hovers on the red button, black and dangerous as the void.

Robin stares. His vision smears with hot tears that pool in the corners of his eyes. All he can see is the cold, empty floor.

Hope, snatched away, in only a few solitary seconds in time.

Something touches the back of his neck and Robin twitches, tensing, wincing with the merciless pain in his hand. Slade’s rough fingers scratch down the back of his neck, under the hated collar that Robin _deserves_, yanking him back.

Robin doesn’t bother to bite back the cry of pain that comes from his irritated wounds as he’s yanked upwards. Something passes his lips, pathetic and pained, a soft whimper. Everything seems to be crashing down at once. He tries to move his other arm, claw feebly at Slade, but . . .

Nothing seems to be working right.

Slade murmurs. “You’ve forgot that  _ I control you _ , stupid boy.” He gives Robin a harsh shake. Robin yells, fingers slamming against the wall that Slade has him up against. Bones grind against each other, pinching nerves between them, meaty muscle flayed into pieces. His mouth is open and all he can do is suck in breath, try to control the pain, tears spilling down his face and loosening the mask he wears. There is too much pain to be humiliated, right now, even as Slade takes in his pained state with an eye that promises nothing but agony.

“M . . . mmm . . . ss . . s . . or . . .” Robin’s wheezing, finding it hard to move, pain catching his breath.

Robin can’t even resist as that hated gloved hand closes around his throat. Fingers press against painful nerves, harsh on sensitive skin, closing like a vice around his jugular. He tries to heave in a breath but nothing comes. The thumb presses, aching, across his veins.

“Are you _sorry_?” Slade says, low and dangerous. “I’m sure you _are_. Unfortunately, that can’t save you any more than your friends. It’s too late for apologies, pet. I’m afraid I’m just going to have to hurt you _more_.”

Dark spots dance in front of the orange, in front of the cool grey, and Robin has just enough time to regret the last five minutes of his life with every last fiber of his being before the lack of blood flow to his brain passes him into blessed unconsciousness.


	10. X (Interlude)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY INTERLUDE BEFORE THINGS GO TO HELL NEXT CHAPTER!!!

Cyborg never quite understood the fear criminals had of Batman until he looked the man’s fury in the face.

Batman stalks around the room, cape chasing him like some kind of demented shadow. He towers over Cyborg and the rest of the team, heavy gauntleted hands on the table. Cyborg gets the feeling that he’s being scanned through those dead white eyes by something inhuman that lies beyond the mask. The feeling makes him shudder down to his circuits.

“You didn’t see fit to tell me this before?” He snarls, head forcing forward. Cyborg takes an involuntary step back. Beast Boy stands behind him, hiding. Raven is the only one who stands her ground.

“We thought he had left to look for Slade—” Starfire begins, hands in fists. Cyborg can see the red streaks still under her eyes from the crying that she has done. Her midsection is bandaged under her costume.

“You_ still _should have contacted me!” Batman growls. Star flinches back, Raven’s eyes narrowing. A fist comes down on the wooden table, leaving a sizeable dent.

“I never should’ve left Robin with a bunch of _children_. You didn’t even realize he went missing.”

Cyborg wants to open his mouth, but somehow, he doesn’t have the will.

“You do not know what he was like before he was gone,” Starfire says. “He was obsessed.”

“For the record,” Beast Boy squeaks, “I voted we tell you.”

“I’m not interested in _excuses_. I need _answers_.”

“We . . . told you everything we know,” Cyborg says. “Raven would know if it was mind control, and we all saw him . . . felt him, too.” His circuits are still off-kilter from the move Robin had pulled. “Nobody else would have known how to hurt us. Or how to get in.”

Batman’s mouth is set in a grim, furious line. “A security override he knew was used to access Wayne Enterprises private vaults last month. While he was missing. This wasn’t the _first _target he hit.”

Cyborg feels chills. He had seen Robin’s expression, pinched and angry and washed out, almost nothing like the proud leader he’d known only a few months ago. Now . . . nothing seems set in stone. He wants it to be Robin, yes, because that would mean that Robin is alive and hopefully safe—being used to do Slade’s nefarious will. It makes him shudder.

“He attacked us,” Raven says, her usual blank tones now imbued with something like emotion. She’s been meditating all day. “He knew exactly how to hurt us and he took advantage of everything he knew.” Her voice is still rough from the brutal blow he’d dealt her.

“Someone’s controlling him,” Batman says darkly, and Cyborg’s filled with relief. If Batman, who knew Robin before them, who runs the League, doesn’t believe that Robin’s truly betrayed them—how could he have? There’s comfort in having someone older, someone who can get things done brought in to a situation that scares Cyborg more than any other thing he’s ever tried to face before, with or without Robin. Not that he would ever admit that.

“Do you think it’s Slade?”

“Wilson, absolutely,” Batman replies absently.

“Wilson?” Starfire murmurs.

“_Slade _Wilson,” Batman clarifies. He’s halfway to the exit as Cyborg’s eyes widen at the revelation. “Stay put. Don’t put yourself in any more danger. Let me know if you find out anything else.”

The door slams, as if he expects them not to help their . . . friend.

* * *

It doesn’t snow in Gotham City, not like in other cities. No white blanket of frost covers the city, only grey slush to match the iron girders thrown up under boots in the street, smoky icicles dragged off every surface that can hold them like frozen knives. Bruce blends in the shadows better in the dark evenings, cape brushing away any trace of his passage as he twists through the alleys like a phantom. Crime is mostly kept inside this evening, the air frigid enough to turn breath into smoke making even the most dedicated of Gotham’s criminal element stay inside curled up under the blankets.

Gotham is the city that created Batman, and then the city that created Robin. It was his second home, right after the circus, and the boy cut his teeth on the petty thugs and robbers that populate the city. It turned him hard, hard at the core, the way Gotham makes you—Robin’s source just as much as it was Bruce’s.

He didn’t want a child to grow up in a city cursed from her alleys to her mansions. Not totally, not utterly, not be formed and molded by villains with smiles as sharp as knives and eyes that mean to kill. Batman can only keep a child safe for so long, no matter how competent—

Can only keep the joy that springs into his eyes and the smiles he sometimes throws up so strangely safe in a place as deadly as this place for _so long_. The smoke of Gotham rises and poisons and suffocates, and Bruce refused to let it smother Robin like another unwanted child and make him into another dead-eyed hero with no meaning but Justice and Order and Vengeance.

So he had (sent) let him away, somewhere to learn more—learn to lead, learn to make friends his age, learn to fight on his own terms without Bruce’s help. It felt like tearing his heart from his chest (if his heart was prone to growing legs and walking away and asserting its independence like an angry teenager). He would let the soldier train, let villains slip through the cracks enough for the boy to take on in his tower in his city with the soldiers he commanded.

He had broken his arm, once. To be expected.

Bruce had still glowered at himself in the mirror and wished he could tear the boy back. But it had worked, in the end, always worked—

Until _Slade. _Until someone who should never have been there _was_, and Robin was taking him on just as much as he was taking on any other villain. A villain that Robin could cut his teeth on, one who challenged him and forced him to become a better, more competent hero. He had outdistanced all of Bruce’s expectations when it had come to Slade, fought him and planned against him and been so close to finding out his real name, been _spectacular_.

Bruce had been a fool.

A proud, stupid fool of a father.

He takes it out on the man who falls to a vicious backhand, slamming against the brick wall with a sick crack that makes the dark part of Bruce’s heart sing. He spins, slamming an elbow into another thug’s gut. He doubles over, and seconds later he’s slammed unconscious to the pavement. The third one tries to run.

Bruce leaves him strung up upside down right outside the alley, blood rushing to his head enough to force him to pass out. The Bat scales the wall with easy precision, fingers digging into the plentiful cracks in the brick and creeping along the wall. Boots hit the first windowpane softer than they should be able to with their bulk, and Bruce only stops two stories up to crouch in the window and take in the small room.

The apartment is dim, only the streetlights from outside sending pale lights striping the carpet. Slit blinds and pushed haphazardly to the side of the window. Old bottles and Chinese takeout containers litter the desks and two very large duffel bags lay on the floor. Most of the room is taken up by a pullout couch, a slim man in a yellowed wifebeater spilled against the pillow.

Bruce braces himself outside the window for several seconds, testing his balance. The huge, black body crashes through the window, black tread boots first, knees bent up to his chest. The man in the bed doesn’t have a chance, jerking slightly before the shadow lands on his bed. He’s thrown back against the top cushions of the threadbare couch. Bruce grabs his collar in two huge hands, leaning in so close he can smell the old cigarette smoke on Lawton’s breath.

“Batman,” Floyd Lawton rasps, half asleep, one hand grasping towards the table at the side of his bed. Bruce’s hand grabs his wrist, slamming it back onto the bed.

“I’m only here to talk,” he growls, “but that doesn’t mean it can’t get messy.”

“Be my guest,” sneers Floyd. His hand twists uselessly under Bruce’s fist. Something Bruce knows all too well as deathlust glints in his tired eyes, just a sliver of the insanity Gotham wreaks.

“I want to know where Wilson is first.”

Lawton’s brows flick up, a small puff of laughter escaping him. “You think he tells _me_? Fucker’s locked up tighter than a nun’s—”

“Everything you know,” Bruce snarls. Small specks of saliva land on Lawton’s moustache. The assassin bares his teeth.

“I ain’t doing nothing wrong and I ain’t telling you nothing.”

“You’re that eager to protect Wilson.”

“Even if I wanted to help you, Batman, I couldn’t. Don’t know shit. Don’t even talk to the bastard.”

“So tell me what you _do _know.”

“Go to hell.”

Bruce’s fist cracks across his face. Lawton slams into the stuffing of the couch, blood dripping from the side of his lip. He barely seems bothered, bouncing back with his usual vigor.

“If you’re gonna kill me, might as well gimme a light first, yeah?”

“I’ll do worse than kill you if I don’t get what I want, Lawton.”

Blood beads on Lawton’s washed out lips, barely visible in the dark. “Gonna feed me to your birdie?”

Bruce backhands him. Lawton hisses, head slammed back to the side, tensing under Bruce’s pinning weight. He spits a tooth back in Bruce’s masked face. It bounces back to his chest, bone-white.

“Sore spot? Heard he left ya. Grow up fast, don’t they?”

Bruce struggles to keep his temper under control, hands constricting on Lawton’s wrist so much he cuts off blood flow and can see the face of pain the man makes. _Focus. Keep on topic._ “I want information on Wilson.”

“Heard he goes by the name Deathstroke these days,” Lawton says sarcastically. “First name Slade, last name Wilson, all his kids hate him. Go figure.”

_Mental issues with children may prompt kidnapping to . . . fill the void? _“Go on.”

Lawton raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were one for schoolyard gossip.”

“Every little bit of information is important,” Bruce hisses.

“And why the sudden interest in our man Wilson, yeah? He get in your city and do a messy job?”

“None of your business.”

“Nah, last I heard he was in Jump City,” mumbles Lawton. His lip is starting to swell. Bruce holds back on the fist he wants to smash into Deadshot’s smug face. The man is more interested in talking than Bruce had initially assumed he would be; their rivalry must be something if it means that Lawton is willing to break even a little bit of the usual code of supervillain silence. “Up to his usual games,” the man continues, only half-interested in the situation. Bruce tacks it down to his typical suicidal disregard for life. He’ll have to call Waller and tell her to come and take out her trash when he’s done here. Suddenly, something flickers across Lawton’s face, a glimmer of thoughtfulness or understanding that Bruce doesn’t like at all. “Hey, ain’t that . . . “ The brown eyes meet Bruce’s circular lenses, seeming to stare through them. “He got your birdie, didn’t he?”

Lawton’s head slams against the pillows and hits the back of the couch with a crack as Bruce slams him on instinct. A thread of saliva drips into his moustache, Lawton licking it up with a bloodied tongue. “So I’m right.” The tone isn’t the typical mocking one of the past few minutes, just a bland statement.

“I know you have a little girl too, Lawton. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll put in a good word for you with Amanda Waller.”

“That’s shit luck, Bats, real shit luck,” Lawton says. “Condolences.”

“I don’t want your sympathy. I want what you _know_.” Bruce shakes him slightly, growing more frustrated.

“You want some more schoolyard gossip, huh?” Lawton seems more relaxed now, pinned under Bruce’s weight. “Wilson’s got a kid. Daughter. Hates his fuckin’ guts and blames him for her problems. Says he used to be married, but I dunno about that. Seems a long shot.”

“_Relevant _information.”

Lawton stares up at the ceiling, licking chapped lips. “Here’s the thing, Bats. He’s got a bit of a . . . _reputation_, I guess you could say. In the biz. Part of the reason I guessed he went after your kid.”

“He’s Deathstroke. Of course he has a reputation.”

“S’not that kind.” A pause. Something crosses Lawton’s face that Bruce doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. “ . . . how old’s that kid? Thirteen? Fifteen?”

Something curdles in Bruce’s gut. “_Why does it matter._”

Lawton’s tone is blunt as the head of a crowbar. “’Cuz Wilson likes ‘em _young_.”

Bruce stares.

“_He what._”

Lawton’s eyes fill with genuine fear for the first time Bruce has seen him this night, even as it melts away into his usual cynical apathy. “Ya want me to spell it out for you? ‘Cuz I can do that. P-E-D-”

“Shut _up_.” Specks of saliva drip onto Lawton’s face but he doesn’t seem to care. Something courses through Bruce’s veins, antifreeze poured in every nerve ending and burning chemicals in his fingertips. His stomach turns to ice.

_Robin._

_Oh god._

“I ain’t got no love for him,” Lawton hisses, something real and genuine in his face, unfamiliar on his coarse features. Bruce remembers vaguely reading his file. The man has a daughter, but before that he’d been married. Had a son—a child who was raped and murdered. Bruce can see a small fraction of his own horror reflected in the dark eyes. “Wilson’s gonna burn in hell just like the rest of us, but I’d love to put him there myself.”

For once, Bruce doesn’t feel the urge to tell him there are other ways, his own hands shaking with rage.

“Tell me what you know,” Bruce repeats, low.

Lawton starts talking.


	11. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe . . .  
i tried to get my normie friend to beta read this chap but he couldn't get through it so you're gonna have to deal with all the ramblyness i had SO MUCH FUN writing this chap even if it was kind of hard sometimes.  
also, i realize i am /really/ bad at answering comments. rest assured, i read every one, i promise to get to replying to every one, and if you left a long and thoughtful one i lost my mind and am still losing my mind. :)

Cold light cuts through the slurry of crimson.. His mouth is dry, lips against frigid nothing as he closes his mouth. The floor he lays on tastes of dirt and something that burns, spitting small rocks.. Saliva is slick against his cheek, Robin blinking his eyes open. They close seconds later, a sharp pain behind his eyes making him squeeze them tight to fight the sudden brightness. Vibrations resonate up through the hard ground, working machinery with little meaning rattling in his bones.

_Slade’s throne room._

Robin would know those gears echoing in his head anywhere. The danger of it wakes him up, raising his head and trying to force his eyes to adjust to the light. He pushes himself up—

“AaaAA!” The pain jolts through his nerves and then his arm collapses like a power line hit by lighting, sparks of pain slicing through his hand. Robin rolls over to take the pressure off of it, cradling the smashed hand as he pants, eyes shut tight, trying not to cry out.

“Nice to see you’re back, apprentice.”

Robin’s eyes shoot open at the sardonic, smooth tone that rattles in his ears. His eyes blur with pain-tears. He blinks them away, pulling himself up with sore abdominal muscles. Seconds later he leans over his knees. _Got to—keep moving._ Shaky feet find their place on the floor, Robin coughing slightly. He catches a glimpse of his hand—swollen to a bulbous size in putrid purple, dried blood crusting the outside of it. Vomit swells in his throat. He pushes it down, looking anywhere else.

Slade lounges on his throne, elevated above Robin, in his usual black casual outfit and vicious boots that make Robin wince just to look at them. And his mask, of course, the cursed orange and black that Robin has been staring at for the past months, the only thing shining through a single frosty eye.

_He’s going to hurt me,_ Robin realizes. The thought makes him shudder slightly, feeling small and weak in the face of someone who has made him a victim so many times. Slade’s posture seems relaxed, but that means nothing. Robin can feel the intention rolling off him, something else in his posture he can’t quite get a fix on, nothing he likes. _He won’t let me get away with trying to get the trigger._

Robin will be screaming before the day is out, and there is nothing he can do about it. _Don’t beg,_ he insists, but the thought seems pale and shallow.

Slade’s form doesn’t rise. Instead, a finger crooks, slowly beckoning. Robin begins shaky steps forward, gaining confidence as his head straightens into consciousness. He moves slowly, not stopping, fear pooling in the pit of his stomach. His mind races, Robin doing his very best to keep it from speculating on the horrifying things that Slade could be planning.

_Whatever I think it is, Slade will do worse._

Robin steps up the dais as firmly as he can, only three steps seeming almost insurmountable. He licks his lips slightly as he comes to stand before Slade, at eye level with him only when the man sits.

“You’ve been very, _very _bad,” Slade purrs, voice full of patronizing disappointment.

“I know,” Robin says blankly. “I’m sorry, Master.”

Slade tilts his head. The gears whirr. “Perhaps,” he acknowledges.

A pause.

“But first things first. Give me your hand.”

Robin lets Slade take it in his huge hands, trying not to look at how badly damaged—or move it at all, even as he winces when Slade touches it. Slade hums slightly. His fingers grab ahold of Robin’s middle finger and _yank _it back into place. Robin yells, trying to yank it away on instinct, but that only makes the tears well in his eyes again. He pants, pulling in deep breaths, trying to let the waves of agony pass.

”If you want it to hurt less, relax,” Slade says absently. Robin yells in pain again, this time in response to two quick jerks. He’s leaning over Slade now, staring down at the black pants, trying to hold back tears of pain. _Don’t let Slade see._

As if he hasn’t already.

Robin tries to follow his advice. It only hurts a little less when Slade sets the last finger and lets the hand fall, Robin cradling it back to his chest, wincing.

“That’ll do for now.” Robin is left with the aftershocks of pain, blinking behind his masked eyelids. The Renegade uniform is still on, itching on his skin.

“So,” Slade begins, sounding self-satisfied. “You’ve raided your little base for your master. Fought your friends for me—hurt your friends for me. Really, you’ve betrayed _everything _you stand for.”

“You blackmail—”

“Quiet. I’m speaking.”

Robin’s mouth snaps shut.

“Perhaps it’s time to move our relationship to the next _level_.” Robin pales, staring with wide, confused eyes. _What?_ “Remove your mask,” Slade orders, the small domino that sits over Robin’s eyes suddenly feeling heavy. He reaches slowly up with his uninjured hand, peeling it off. Wetness dribbles down his face, no longer held back by the fabric. Slade holds out his hand, the mask curling slightly as it falls pathetically into his palm.

_Just a piece of fabric._

The black and orange mask is inscrutable. Slade’s fingers crush the mask in their fist, resting it against the huge armrests. His hand comes up slowly—Robin almost flinches, but it’s not coming for him. Instead, the fingers splay themselves spiderlike around the mask. The eye stares, unblinking, as the mask comes off in Slade’s fingers.

Robin inhales.

The mask falls away.

The face that appears is nothing like Robin imagined and yet so perfectly _Slade _he can’t believe he ever thought of him as anything else. Slade could _be _nothing else, nothing but the man who sits before him as the mask is laid on the armrest. The singular blue eye stares out at him, the other covered by a black eyepatch, set deep in a face that’s almost middle aged. Square jaw, heavy cheekbones, and snowy white hair down to the eyebrows and goatee—falling softly to his shoulders. The face shakes once, hair settling, eye piercing into Robin.

“Who are you?” Robin whispers, eyes glued to the sight in front of him.

The wide mouth moves, forming words in Slade’s voice, giving away the secret that Robin has devoted months of his life to learning. Something that frustrated him for so long.

“Slade Wilson,” Slade says. His fingers tap lightly on the mask. “Also known as . . . _Deathstroke_.”

“Deathstroke,” Robin echoes. “Slade Wilson.”

An answer he’d been trying to find for so long, just handed to him from his enemy’s fingers. A face almost familiar, and a name—

_His first name._

_Robin had had his _first name.

Slade grins, seemingly wider than he should be able to. “I was waiting to see if you would figure it out. A little joke, between me and myself.”

Robin gapes stupidly.

“You never did. The “World’s Greatest Detective” didn’t teach you well enough, hm?”

It’s hard for him to process that he’s looking Slade in the face. The real face. Slade _Wilson_.

A name. A name that Robin, _stupidly_, _pathetically_, couldn’t figure out. An obvious clue that Slade had dangled right in front of his face but he’d somehow _missed_. Even spending every _hour _the hunt hadn’t borne fruit and now he has to have it just _handed to him_.

“Why are you telling me this?” Robin asks, hollow.

He knows right after he asks the question. Knows in his bones.

“Because you, my boy, are _never going to tell_.” Slade’s smile is ghoulish. “Because you are _never _going to leave.”

Staying with Slade forever.

The thought hangs over Robin’s mind, sinking into his soul.

He doesn’t open his mouth to argue. The effort to move his lips would be pointless anyways.

“Because I _own you_.”

“Not my mind,” Robin says softly. “Not _me_. Not . . . who I really am.”

“That will come, in time,” Slade promises. Fingers arch on his mask. “How long do you think you can endure? Months? _Years_?” Robin resists the urge to wrap his arms around himself. “It would be easier to simply give in—but of course, I don’t expect that. You’re quite stubborn.” His eye gleams. “It’s part of the reason I chose you to serve me.”

Robin raises his face to meet Slade’s cool glare, mouth set in a grim, determined line. The horror of giving in flares through his nerves. “I’ll fight you to the very end,” he swears. “_Master_.”

“And I would accept nothing less,” Slade purrs. He shifts, leaning forward. “However, the fact remains . . .” Slade rises off the throne, still a step in front of Robin on the dais, towering at twice his height. Muscles ripple under dark fabric. Robin tenses, ready to—run? Hide? Take it? He doesn’t know. Something glimmers in his eye. _Anticipation. _“I have you here. And I can take _whatever I want_.” The last words are nearly whispered, leaning over Robin, hands relaxed at his sides.

“What _haven’t _you taken from me?” Robin’s voice is full of a quiet loathing, the agony of the past months building up in him and burning in his veins. “My _name_, my _friends_, my _freedom_.” He wants to cry again. Robin’s not surprised, somehow. “What’s _left_?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Slade’s voice is full of fake thoughtfulness. “I can think of a few things.” The arctic eye rakes its gaze down Robin’s body, taking him in, something lingering in it that makes the hairs on Robin’s neck stand on end. It turns the tips of his fingers cold.

Robin steps back, almost stumbling and falling, retreating on humiliating instinct. His foot lands one stair below.

Slade’s boot hits the step where he stood, still towering close and dangerous. He tilts his head—slowly, deliberately, still regarding Robin with that new stare, the new expression of _something_ Robin can’t quite put his finger on. Robin inhales softly as the tip of Slade’s finger presses under his chin, warmer than it should be, tilting his head up with the promise of more force if he resists.

“Tell me, Robin, are you a _virgin_?”

Robin’s blood turns to lead in his veins, heart a still hunk of metal in his chest, every limb weighing him down and pushing him through the floor, somehow still impossibly standing upright. His lungs don’t work when he calls on them, air trapped in his chest, mouth opening without sound. The lead shatters, sending shards tearing through his skin, leaving him empty with nothing to hold him up but somehow he’s _still there_.

The look in Slade’s eye is a purely lethal _lust_. The man arches an eyebrow, as if expecting an answer. “Well?”

Robin’s mouth is slightly open, mind catching up, frozen in time. A shaking foot almost collapses under him as he takes another step back, something hot and tingling filling his veins again.

“I’m going to say . . . _yes_,” Slade muses nonchalantly, taking another step forward, casting Robin in his looming shadow. “Unless you’ve been up to something particularly naughty with that alien girlfriend of yours, hm?”

Robin’s lips move, forming garbled thoughts into faraway words. “Wh . . . what—I don’t—don’t think—don’t want—”

“It doesn’t matter what you want, my boy.” The eye widens, brow flaring, staring at Robin. The pupil swells ever so slightly, a void sucking in the cold ocean. “The important thing is what _I _want. And right now . . .” He leans in, shadow eating Robin up, sucking him down into its inky depths. “I think you’re smart enough to know what I want.”

The small form stumbles back, legs flying out from under him in his haste to get away, tripping over the step. Robin yells as his smashed hand hits the ground with the full force of his bodyweight, tears pooling in his eyes. It grinds under the force before Robin manages to cradle it to his chest, panting. He scrabbles back with his feet in a mad fury because _Oh god Slade is—Slade wants . . ._ Robin doesn’t know exactly what he wants, exactly what that would even _entail_, but he knows the word for it—picked up from cases in Gotham, from Bruce’s glowering condemnations.

_Rape._

_Slade wants to rape him._

_Slade is _going_ to rape him._

The desperate fear that swells in Robin’s lungs flits through his muscles and forces him to _move_, using his one good hand to push himself up on shaking legs now powered with sheer adrenaline—only to look up and see Slade towering like some furious beast.

The eye scares Robin most of all.

There’s nowhere to run. There never has been. Not for months, for weeks, not from Slade’s fists and sneering words and slithering presence.

“I always get what I want. Haven’t you learned?”

Robin bares his teeth. He isn’t shaking with the horror that dances behind his eyes, he isn’t shaking with fear, with Slade’s inevitable declaration. Every inch of his body is pushed into one imperative: _fight._

He throws a punch with all his energy behind it, desperation fueling his fighting skills. The knuckles rush forward, cracking against Slade’s palm. The cool eye meets Robin’s a millisecond before Slade’s fingers clamp down. He steps easily behind Robin before Robin even knows what’s happening, bringing the arm around even as Robin steps forward to get out of his grip, twisting the shoulder—pressure on the wrist, sending shockwaves of pain up to the strained shoulder. Robin doesn’t bother to bite back his cry of pain as he kicks back with a desperate boot, trying to find purchase. The edge of Slade’s hand slams into his tendons, Robin yelling and falling forward only to be caught on a screaming shoulder.

Slade’s hand holds him there, dangling by the wrist. Robin stares at the dark ground, suddenly a terrifying prospect even as he lay there mere minutes before. Pain makes tears form in his eyes. Fear makes them worse. Robin’s feet scrabble at the ground, trying to gain purchase.

Just before Robin gets his feet under him, a hand pushes down inexorably on his shoulder. Robin’s knees hit the ground with a too-loud sound, sending bruising pain echoing in him, his twisted shoulder pressing down and down against the ground. Robin tries to get a hand under him so he can flip up and kick Slade but all he sees against the dark ground is his bruised hand—a moment of hesitation in the swirl of adrenaline is all it takes for Slade’s weight to bear down on his back, forcing his face closer to the ground—

“I’ll break your other wrist,” Slade whispers in his ear and Robin yells, head twisted as Slade presses down with just enough not to make it _snap_, forcing him to keep on the ground as Slade leans in, more of his body pressing in warm against Robin, maskless face too close to his head. Panic constrict Robin’s chest even more. He doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t know what’s going to happen—doesn’t know what Slade means to do because _how is that even possible_ but he knows Slade means to do it with every ounce of his crushing weight.

The unthinkable, that Robin hadn’t thought about.

Never imagined.

Never even considered, for one second, that Slade might . . .

Might want to . . .

Fear so cold it burns trickles down into his stomach. Adrenaline floods his system, numbing the pain in both his hands.

“No!” Robin struggles, trying to wriggle out of Slade’s grip—pain flares. He ignores it, his bruised and bleeding hand trying to brace against the floor, incapable of holding him up. Slade pulls in closer, pressing Robin down. He has to be crouching now to be so close to Robin’s comparatively small form, one hand splayed against his back and forcing Robin down, slightly over his knees, so close he can smell the dirt on the unwashed floor.

It’s hard to breathe with the pressure on him, with the fear, Robin trying to kick again with aching legs, his wrists shrieking at him with pain, shaking with the desperation of it—the need to force Slade off of him, to stop having that horrible presence against his skin, his body, that voice that promises horrors Robin doesn’t understand. “Sl—Slade. Slade. Slade, stop. Don’t do this.” His windpipe is constricted as he tries to keep his head up from the force pressing him into the ground.

“You can’t stop this,” Slade says, almost serene except for the dark note just under his words, the one that sends every inch of Robin’s skin crawling with terror. The first real, human emotion that Robin has heard that isn’t anger and it makes him choke. “You can’t stop _me_.” He leans in. His lips are almost against Robin’s ear, almost hanging in time, breath hot and wet. “You’ve never been able to stop me.”

The thought of Slade doing whatever he wants paralyzes him. Robin hisses, trying to get his legs behind him to kick at Slade but instead finding he can’t because of the pressure pressing down on him. He’s almost completely immobilized, unable to get at Slade—fighting helplessly against the overwhelming force. _No, no, no, nonononono_—

Slade’s hand lets go of his wrist, letting it fall painfully to the ground. It’s unable to get at him, splayed against the ground, pinned as Robin is. Slade’s hand is on Robin’s hip, too close and too sickly _intimate _and pressing down almost gently as it pressing against Robin’s stomach, lower on his abdomen.

“You can’t do this,” Robin pleads.

“Your Batman isn’t here to stop this, boy. Might as well give in to your new master.”

Fingers against the belt of his uniform.

“Or you can resist. Makes it more fun.”

Robin’s breath catches. All he can see is his hands on the ground all he can _feel _is the fingers burning into him, the exhaustion in his bones from fighting, thrown into sharp detail. His voice breaks. He barely notices. “N-no. Slade. SLADE!”

The clasp comes undone in Slade’s fingers, Slade leaning in, not quite touching him with his body. The only response is a soft, dark laugh near Robin’s head—

Robin jerks his head back in desperation, barely getting any force behind it. He hits air, trying to twitch enough under Slade’s hands that he can maybe only if he tries his best get out of it, panting as Slade’s hand goes to his belt.

Fingers hook into his waistband.

“Please,” Robin begs, soft and shameless, almost whimpering. Hands hold him down, harsh against the ground. “Please—Slade, please—please don’t.”

The air hits his backside and his crotch as Slade tugs the uniform down without a care, wrenching it roughly over Robin’s hips as the boy freezes, staring ahead with eyes that he wishes could simply go blank. The ground is cold against his face and Robin doesn’t know when his head fell to meet it. The urge to get away is so overwhelming that he feels he’ll die if he doesn’t, fingers scrabbling against the floor and scratching fingernails down it.

Slade doesn’t even notice. Robin feels rough fingers grasp at his ass, pinching at the cheeks. Slade’s, touching him there, so fundamentally wrong it shouldn’t even be and yet it _is _in this twisted reality where Slade holds his friends lives and Robin serves at his command.

“Oh, definitely a virgin,” Slade mocks, so satisfied. Robin feels something meaningless choke out of his throat, trying to raise his head, feeling sickness curl in his gut. His palms work against the floor, meaningless against Slade’s power. Robin gasps as he feels fingers at his hole, and Slade—Slade can’t possibly mean to, that can’t possibly be—

Robin shakes again, struggling to pull away from the fingers that make whimpers build in the back of his throat, the touch he can’t escape no matter how hard he tries, only making it move against him. Inescapable. The words that spill from his lips are desperate, pathetic, breaking, too close to crying. “Master, please—don’t do this, Slade—_stop.”_ Robin struggles again, more desperately, nerves screaming with something he can’t understand as fire fills his veins. “_Don’t do this. Please, please—aAAaaA!”_

He’s cut off as Slade’s finger pushes into him, digging through the contracting muscle to bury itself deep in Robin, pulling back and forth. So _wrong_, something somewhere it shouldn’t be at all, a twisting an invasive force. “NO! STOP!” Robin shrieks, forcing himself to move and pull with mangled hands, the horror of it nearly overtaking him, every bit of him screaming with the pain of it, only succeeding in making Slade’s fingers twist. 

Robin clenches down on it, determined not to make it easy for him but it _ hurts, _an exhale of pain as Robin’s fist clenches, neck bending down to the floor to press his forehead against it, trying to exist with Slade violating him, no chance of pulling himself out of it. A whimpering, keening noise presses out softly through his lips, every muscle tense and screaming and unable to move. Stuck, hopelessly, without any chance of movement or escape, the need to making him want to scream.

A second finger jams in painfully with the second, stretching him too much, too wide. The tip presses in against his walls, twisting and turning, nails biting into something that should be too deep inside of him to be touched. The floor is cold against him, cool air brushing past his genitals, Slade purring in his ear. “Tight little thing, aren’t you?” His fingers scissor, wrenching Robin open—cool air where it shouldn’t be, forcing the muscles painfully wide and pushing him to his limit. 

Robin pants at the discomfort, not quite from the pain (even though there is certainly pain), from the sheer violation of Slade’s fingers digging into him and crooking deep in his guts. Fingers pry him wider, Robin’s legs shuddering under him and growing sore with the pressure, Slade’s mocking tone still echoing. He’s being twisted out of shape, muscles clenching onto nothing, and Slade is enjoying this.

This thing that Robin can’t stop at all. His eyes burn so shamefully but Robin can’t bring it in himself to care, fingers that would be turning into fists instead aching as his lips move against the floor.

“Y-Y-You’re _sick_,” Robin pants. “You’re a—” his voice breaks slightly, hopelessly “—fucking—demented psycho, I . . . _I hate you_.”

“I’m sure you do,” Slade says smoothly, relishing. His hand presses down harder against Robin’s ribs and he gaps as his lungs constrict. The face leans in, hot breath on Robin’s neck, too close to him. His fingers stretch wider, pulling on Robin’s body. Robin’s head and shoulders shudder. He whimpers. “Hate is useless without power,” Slade says thoughtfully. “Maybe if you’d trained a little harder, hm?”

“If you relax it might hurt less, apprentice.” Teeth in a hot mouth bite down on the back of Robin’s neck and Robin hisses at the feeling. That’s _ Slade _there, stubble scratching against the back of his neck as Robin grimaces with the pain of teeth biting through skin, tongue probing in the wound. The sensation makes him sick, shuddering with the wrongness of it, trying to struggle. It’s useless even as Slade pulls away seconds later, leaning back.

His fingers retreat and Robin sighs with the relief of it, the invading aspects gone. The cold air he feels against his entrance is something he doesn’t even mind, free of Slade’s digits.

Seconds pass.

Fear pools in Robin hot and horrible. He struggles to turn, to see his enemy and find his weaknesses but he can’t, still held down so _easily_, held there like a child. He has to see, has to know, but he can’t, fear crawling down the back of his neck and shuddering over pale skin. All he can do is wait, strain his senses for a soft noise, slick and sharp, that takes Robin a second to place as a zipper.

The zipper of Slade’s pants.

The world seems to twist in front of him, Robin trying to jerk again—trying to speak but no words coming from between his lips, just soft air that can’t quite form into syllables. Something chokes him that feels like a hand but isn’t. Fear, overwhelming fear. Something tracks down his face. Tears, hot and salty, wasting precious water that Slade rarely gives him. A whimper.

_Be brave_, he whispers to himself, trying to steel his body for what he knows is coming. Be brave like Bruce would, hold your tears in like Bruce would.

But Bruce would never end up in this situation, splayed half naked on the floor at someone else’s behest because he is too weak and childish to defend himself, because he lets his friend get captured. _Maybe it’s the least I deserve. _This is Robin’s fate through and through.

The tears come faster. Slade’s hand pries at his ass, spreading one of the cheeks and pulling him wide. Robin buries his face in his arms, wrists burning, pressing them down against the floor because pain is better than having to think. Something prods slightly against Robin’s entrance that isn’t a few fingers, something much thicker, much more dangerous. He whimpers.

“I told you I was going to fuck you,” Slade whispers harshly, lustily. He applies the littlest bit of pressure and presses forward, Robin pushed against the ground as his ass is pushed forward into Slade’s wrist, the tip only easy to take for a few seconds before it goes in and in and stretches him out slowly more and more and more until he feels himself stretch and tear and fissure and then Slade presses in more, harder, dry skin on dry skin without a care in the world, seeking only to put in and destroy and cause horrible _pain. _

Robin hears himself sobbing, childishly, not bravely at all. Slade’s lodged in him in the most unnatural way, tearing him, and he’s pressing in more and more every _ second _ every last bloody inch wrenching Robin wider and pressing against his wounds. He thinks he might be bleeding already but he can’t tell, trying to jerk out of the way only to cry out with the pain of it, Slade laughing in his ear because Slade’s probably enjoying this, seeing him in pain and—and _ feeling _inside him and . . .

And Robin’s sobbing again, face pressed against the cold floor, not quite here and yet every aching screaming second pressed into every inch of his skin and every place behind the darkness of his eyelids, hot tears coming one after the other, inescapable, dripping onto his arms. Slade presses in again, Robin yelling, too tired to care that he shows his pain, Slade forcing himself in in ways he shouldn’t be able to in a place he shouldn’t be able to, in a place he isn’t without wrenching Robin aside and tearing him wider but Slade doesn’t care.

Doesn’t care at all.

Every inch is dry and bloody and makes Robin yell out, fingers scratching against the floor without a real meaning or purpose, simply making themselves duller against it in a pretend-escape. Blood is definitely leaking from him now, Slade moving in faster, blood slicking him and making it easier to violate Robin. Bruising hands hold at his hips, pulling him upward, pulling him further onto Slade. How big is he, _how much is he_, it feels like Robin’s being torn apart by something miles across but it’s only Slade, thickness pushing into him, enough of it now that he can feel the pain as it pushes at his insides, strange and alien and horrible in every way. He’s panting between stuttering sobs, praying he can simply escape or fall through the floor or just cease to be here, in his body, at this singular moment in time.

The movement stops, after what seems like years of violation, Robin’s legs spread, panting softly. His hips ache, everything aches, and his ass burns. He can feel Slade’s balls pressing against him, feel his ass up against the hair at Slade’s crotch fully impaled on his . . .

On his . . .

On his cock, totally buried in Robin’s ass, taking all of it in him as it spreads him wide. Robin shudders with another sob, clenching around the thing in him as Slade makes a pleased noise on top of him he can’t begin to care about. He can feel it moving in him slightly as Slade adjusts, pressing in place Robin didn’t even know he had nerves in, a strange and awful shape that makes him want to scream but his throat doesn’t work enough for a scream, the only thing escaping him pathetic sobs. 

He’s here, he’s living this, this unimaginable thing as Slade sneers above him. With pleasure. With his own—sick desire, the culmination of every raking eye and slim, hot touch against Robin’s shoulder, the signs he should’ve seen but didn’t, couldn’t, and now here he is.

Enduring something he couldn’t have stopped anyways.

Slade’s voice is low. “You look good like this, hm? I should put you on your knees more _often_.”

Too-large fingers dig into Robin’s hips. Robin doesn’t know what to say, what to think, can’t even fathom this let alone another and then he’s throwing back his head as far as he can with Slade’s hand constricting his spine and screaming because Slade his pulling out of him but he’s not pulling he’s wrenching and tearing and leaving carnage behind, closing aching muscles and leaving the tip in—

Slade’s thickness slams back into him with horrible force and Robin’s screaming again, into his hands, into the dirty floor as Slade tears open the tears in him and pushes deeper, further, halfway into him on nerves that makes Robin’s brain shriek at him because it’s so, so wrong, too much and too fast and too painful and he can feel Slade’s grunting as he’s again there, filling every inch of Robin in the most horrible way, merciless and horrible and _evil._

Robin sobs, sobs again as Slade slowly yanks himself out, blood pooling in Robin’s crack as he pulls it out and sticking in his hair, shrieking with the pain of it as Slade forces himself in, almost easier in the tatters he’s left Robin in, still wrenching past rings of muscle that aches and scream and this isn’t the worst pain Robin’s been in, not by a long shot, but there’s something about it that’s worse than everything that’s happened before, because that Robin could take. Knew how to take, had been trained for, and this—

Slade pulling out and pausing half a second as Robin whimpers softly and hopelessly at the pain he knows is going to arrive as Slade’s hard skin pound into him again, Robin jostling as he’s pulling up and against him, Slade groaning above him. He yells again, pounded and pushed open again, trying to go limp just to stop the pain but it doesn’t work as he’s wrenched aside to make way for Slade’s invading body. Somewhere in between Slade’s hands both dig into his hips—but there’s no way Robin can turn around now, pulled by unrelenting force as Slade digs into him again, Robin screaming, skin slamming against skin with a sick noise as Slade grunts from above, a horrible cacophony that echoes in the chambers of Robin’s skull back and forth and back and forth as it happens again, Slade so deep in Robin it almost feels like he really is him in the core, replaced by the older man who holds him down and takes what he wants from his body, pushing through every resistance. 

Awful slick noises echo through the air, sounding below Robin seemingly overwhelming noises of pain, and he realizes it’s the blood in him as Slade pulls out almost slowly before slamming into him again, skin slapping against skin, jostling Robin’s loose cock as he’s thrown forward, caught by hands on his hips. Robin bites down on his lip, fingers digging into his palms so hard they hurt—only saved from bleeding by the gloves he still wears. His legs are pressed too far apart, straining him to make it easier for Slade to get in, stretching him unnaturally. Robin should be good at that but Slade is wrenching him out of place with every movement, too big and wrong, so much horrible force behind him.

Slade starts to move fast, the blood that runs down Robin’s body making it easier to violate. Robin’s pushed into the ground with every grating movement, knees barely protected from the ground as they bruise further, face pressed into it. The only respite from the cold is his tears, Robin sobbing for good now, breath catching with every thrust, body somehow accepting something into it that should be too big and too impossible, opening so easily for Slade’s desires. There’s not a chance of pulling away, not even a chance of moving, pulled along with his horrible momentum as Robin rocks back onto him with his hands on him, pushed there with his weight with Slade’s member shoved roughly in him. Pain radiates up his spine, every muscle aching, shrieking when Slade’s hips snap to meet Robin’s ass. There is no mercy in his movements, just Slade’s harsh grunting of concentration. Robin tries to curl into himself, pull his arms to his face to gain some kind of comfort in the melee. If the world were fair, if even an inch of it made any kind of sense down to the smallest atom he wouldn’t be _here, _wouldn’t have Slade lodged so far in him it hurts to think about, he’d have died from the horror of it, but he’s somehow existing despite it all, against all odds, some horrible god pressing him into consciousness and living in the sharp cold and sharp pain and the purring of Slade’s breath against his neck. He shudders under it, lips parting slightly. He could push himself up but he doesn’t think he can after all, doesn’t think his body holds the strength as Slade jerks him back and forth in time with a rhythm of his own making, sick and perverse.

This is the kind of thing that happens to other people, to the battered women Bruce pulls out of alleyways and sets on their feet before disappearing, to the dead children that wander the streets of Gotham City with hell behind their eyes.

Not to _Robin_.

And yet he exists as Slade’s nails scratch his skin.

“Not—_hng_—not enjoying yourself, pet?” He croons mockingly.

Robin pants. For a second in that hanging time he’d forgotten that Slade was real, a person, a person who could _ do this _with a mind and a brain and thoughts and no soul behind his eye. Something incoherent slips past slick lips, turning into a soft yell as Slade digs into him again, for the thousandth time, still agonizing. His mind seems to fuzz over, the only feeling his muscles expanding around Slade over and over, faster and faster, as Slade gets rougher with every blood-soaked stroke. Limbs seem to spasm without his say-so, twitching when Slade pushes into him, sound he doesn’t understand escaping his mouth. He tastes blood and bile and tries to curl around his shivering form, feeling sobs shake it almost as much as Slade’s merciless movement. Everything is coming undone. Robin can feel himself unravelling as he lays there beneath Slade, the aching pressure of the months pressing down without respite.

The pace speeds up again, Slade leaning over him more, trying to dig even further in. He doesn’t even pull all the way out before pulling Robin to him again, slamming again, sending vibrations that echo in his bones. Robin doesn’t know how long it’s been since this has started, simply trying to endure the second he’s cruelly forced to exist in, barely able to do that. A series of quick pulls and a puffing grunt by Slade of effort, Robin jostled and pulled up to meet Slade’s crotch. The movement stops, something hot pooling in Robin’s core and trickling deeper into him as Slade holds him, slick like blood as Robin’s eyes loosen from their squeezed shut state. The thought that it might finally be _over _slips across his mind, too good to be true, still shaking—

Slade’s fingers loosen against Robin’s hips. Robin has only a small sound of movement as warning before teeth dig into the back of his neck. Robin arches against his better knowledge, trying to shake off Slade, only succeeding in pushing him deeper in his ass. Noises of protest slip out of his mouth as saliva trails down his back, followed by Slade’s nipping teeth. Robin shudders, trying to pull away, feeling fingers slide up to his ribcage to prod in between them and hold him _still_, body pliable. Slade sucks at his back, still buried in him, hot and wet and . . . Robin’s eyes blink open shortly with the horror of it as it’s not _blood _that blooms inside of him, it’s Slade who’s finished in his body, seed trickling through him and tainting him and _using _him without a care in the world and it should be _his _body, _Robin’s _body, something he owns and something he is and instead Slade simply pushes him to the ground and laughs in his face and pretends Robin doesn’t have the _right _to it.

Lips draw pain out of Robin’s back, biting a small trail as Slade shifts, Robin twitching, Slade’s cum twisting inside him as Robin feels every leaking inch. He gasps out tears, trailing uselessly down his face, a small puddle now under his face and dripping down his chin. Slade’s lips on him make him want to shudder away, pressing at Slade’s fingers on his ribs uselessly—he’s held down, no chance of dislodging Slade from within him. His body shakes, but only from the irrevocable truth of it, the shock and the fear. Slade sucks roughly at his neck and Robin hisses sharply, lips slick on his skin.

The mouth draws back, Robin’s head still cold against the ground, body reverberating with the shock of it. Slade’s body grows colder—moves away slightly, pulling itself up, silent except for the rasping of breathing. Robin realizes absently that he’s breathing too, still sucking in air that seems cold against his skin. He feels his lungs inflate, ribs growing apart before relaxing.

In and out.

Slade’s fingers no longer taint his chest, only gracing his hips. With a slick sliding sound that makes the bile in Robin’s throat sharper, Slade pulls out of him. Robin can feel the slickness pulled out of him as he’s able to finally relax, the last of the invading shaft out of him. There’s a small exhale of relief that passes his lips, Slade slipping free. Everything moves away as Robin hears him get up, readjusting his clothing. His eyes blink slowly, tears beaded on the edge of the lashes, head daring to lift a few inches off of the ground. Everything is still cold from his waist down, still stuck in a position that leaves his muscles burning. Robin whimpers as he pushes himself up on his arms, aching slightly—something slips out of him and he bites his lip. _Slade_, in him. All he can do is fall over to the side, abused shoulder sending shockwaves up his arms into his hand. Robin yells slightly, eyes squeezing shut for several seconds to collect himself.

“Get up.” Slade’s voice is neutral, pitiless and blank and cold. Robin looks up at him, eyes impossibly wide. Slade’s boots are inches from his face, still tracking dirt from the mission. Robin tries to push himself away as fast as he can, palms sending bolts of pain up his arms as he tries to shove himself away—only succeeding in moving a few inches, pants still tangled around his thighs. He must look pathetic laying here and the thought doesn’t make him as furious as it should.

Eyes travel up the suit to see Slade completely back to normal, as if nothing had ever happened, as if he hadn’t—

Hadn’t just—

Robin stares up into the singular eye and horrible face, lined and vicious and careless. His face is twisted into something that is no longer defiance but simply fear and caution. The eyes don’t leave Slade, because Robin has to know if he makes another move, fear curdling already in his guts. He fumbles with his pants, short, pitiful panting echoing from his mouth as he tries to pull them up with his one hand that he can actually move, even if the pain of it makes him shudder and wince with every tug. The place where Slade . . . entered him, aches with every movement and Robin tries to shove it from his mind, shove it away where he won’t have to think about it ever again, even as every inch of the feeling is carved in his brain as surely as if Slade had opened his skull and done it with a razorblade. Something drips down the backs of his thighs, surely staining him—

Something swells in his throat. Robin almost falls forward onto the floor as he gags, heaving, nothing coming up but acid and saliva that falls to the ground in a thin stream. He’s there shuddering for several seconds before something grasps onto the back of his shirt. Robin yells, thrashing, only to be set down seconds later on his feet, pants still not quite fully up. His face burns as he turns, breaths coming too quick as he yanks the bottom half of his uniform up the rest of the way, making some kind of—some decency here, some kind of dignity left to preserve.

Robin stands there, staring up at Slade with wary, distrustful fear, arm hanging limply at his side and one hand cradled against his chest, still mangled. Tearstains track down his cheeks, the last of it still dripping off of his chin, every inch of his body shaking with—adrenaline, fear, exertion. He can still feel Slade slick down the backs of his thighs, trying to push his undergarments so that it ends up on them instead but to no avail.

His mouth opens and Robin feels that he should say something, anything, doesn’t know what he can say that can carry the feelings he has in him, the disbelief and loathing and shock and pain that all blend together into one horrible slurry and choke him as he gapes. All he can hear is his own hyperventilating breath, feel every inch of him shuddering under his clothing. He feels still exposed, wrenched and burned and violated, salt and metal on his lips.

“Wh-_Why_?” The word slips through his teeth, so low that Slade almost shouldn’t be able to hear it. The man seems supernatural sometimes, like he has a sixth sense for these things, something to hold Robin down and laugh in his face. _Why this? Why me? Why this . . . horror . . . _Why the thing that Robin can’t comprehend, that his brain still struggles to wrap around and hold down and process, even after it’s been completed, even as it drips down the back of Robin’s thighs twined with his blood.

Slade’s eyebrow crooks. “I thought you’d look good squirming on my cock.”

Robin stares at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, the harsh words echoing.

Slade’s lips quirk up in an expression that Robin wishes he couldn’t see. “You do, by the way.”

Nothing slips from his lips this time, simply wrapping his arms around himself—pressing against bruised ribs where Slade’s prints lie, already burning into his skin like ink. Slade turns slightly, moving away—casually, easily, as if this had never happened. He moves to the computers, Robin watching him with wet eyes, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. Knees shudder slightly, and Robin pours all his effort into holding them there, holding himself on his own two feet as he faces Slade.

The screens flicker on, casting Slade in sinister white light, making his hair almost glow like the halo on an angel.

On Lucifer himself.

“And now for your punishment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> robin's trials are not over!! tune in next week!!!!  
also, this is an advertisement brought to you by the writer: if anyone wants to rp para sladin w me (i write robin) hmu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/raperobin). you gotta be literate, gotta be kinky. im Thirsty.


	12. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so . . . this is the part where i have to say: this slade is not the slade in the comics. he is almost 100% based on the teen titans cartoon, even if i take inspiration from the comics later in the story. also, heed the warnings! and the fact that i am a mean writer.

“M-M-My-“ Robin has to take a second, take a breath, make his lips move in words that seem suddenly foreign and unfamiliar and unwanted. “My punishment?”

“Of course,” Slade purrs. He doesn’t even turn from the screen to look at Robin. “You tried to attack me, boy, you don’t think you’re going to avoid consequences, do you?”

Robin can’t even imagine anything more coming from Slade, anything more rocking his body—the thought of whipping makes hot tears burn in his eyes, tears he didn’t know he had to shed, makes his fingers shake even more. He can feel the cold of the room cutting into him more and more, as if every defense of his has been stripped away in the wracked fifteen minutes of Slade throwing him to the ground.

He can’t take any more.

The shame overtakes him for giving up, pain shivering through him, exhaustion hanging over his head. _Weak._

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispers, low and shameful. “Please . . .”

The screens whirr to life, starting to move, cast in red with bars of . . . life support, heartbeat, status of the—

RAVEN. BEAST BOY. CYBORG. STARFIRE.

_No. No! NO!_

“You know what I think of that word,” Slade says, the tone of his voice a casual reprimand, as if a father. Robin realizes he’d been yelling out loud, lips open. He feels something trickle down his face. More tears. He gasps, wrapping his arms around himself as if he can protect himself from all of this, from Slade, from reality, from anything. The body shakes under his fingers.

“P-please,” Robin whispers. “S-Master, n-please. Please don’t. I promise—I won’t do it again.” The horror of it sinks, terror as cold as ice in every cell of his body, frost on his fingertips and every time he swallows. _His friends. _Robin remembers seeing them, what feels like long ago but can’t have been more than a couple of hours, fighting them as they scream and look at him like a failure who can’t protect his friends and if Robin does anything, anything at all—

He has to keep them safe.

He’s the leader.

They’re his responsibility, each and every one of them, it’s on him to keep them alive, and Robin would offer Slade every last shred of everything he is to keep them safe, hollow out his soul and sell it to Slade.

Slade casts a single eye at him, turning slightly away from the screen. “I don’t tolerate my things fighting back, boy. I told you what would happen should you attack against me again. You were warned many times, and I even showed you _mercy_.” Slade’s eye narrows. “I see now that was a mistake. You obviously haven’t learned at all.” Slade’s hand goes into his belt, the part of it—the part of it that holds the trigger. “You have nobody to blame but yourself.”

Robin’s head is shaking without his knowledge, watching the trigger appear in Slade’s hands in slow motion. It glints in the light like it did only hours ago when Robin tried to grab it. When he failed. His hand aches down to the broken bones.

“Don’t kill them,” Robin begs, hollow. Desperate. “Please—they didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice hitches. “It’s me you want. I did it. I messed up, I’m sorry, please punish me. Not them.” His voice breaks. “_They didn’t do anything_.”

“Did you think I was bluffing?” Slade wonders. “Do you think I don’t follow through on my promises, boy?”

Robin’s head shakes. “N-no. No! I-I believe you, I know, I just . . .” He had never for a moment doubted Slade’s will to _kill_—

Even as the man is capable of so much more, now, in Robin’s mind.

“I just wasn’t _thinking,_” Robin says, voice tiny.

“You weren’t _thinking_,” Slade mocks. “Should I put that on your collar? _BRAINLESS_?”

Tears bead in Robin’s eyes. “I—I—I—”

The trigger hangs there, something in Robin sick. Slade’s finger hover over it, so horribly close—too close—his attention now focused on it, Robin’s breath completely still.

The finger moves.

Robin’s running at him before he realizes what’s happening, pain shooting up his thigh into where Slade forced himself in and burning in his fingers as he throws himself at Slade will an incoherent yell.

The death of his friends is incomprehensible to him. An impossible outcome, one he can’t comprehend. The pain of it, he thinks, would kill him too.

The boy crashes to the ground. Robin screams when he tries, for the second time in so many hours, to hold himself up with his injured hands. Instead he collapses against the floor, face burning with a vicious backhand. Slade’s knuckles will bruise on his face. Robin stares up at the form that seems to be twice, three, five times his size looming over him as it walks with steady strides, steps almost seeming loud. Something fills Robin’s lungs—panic, fingers shaking, ready to move.

“And there’s _more disobedience. _No, punishing you yourself seems to provide no real incentive.”

Robin’s choking on something he doesn’t understand, trying to sit up through shuddering muscles and blurring eyes. A black hole pulls him to the ground, sucking everything out of him, blood pulled to the bottom of his body with the inevitable force of horror. He feels blank, empty. “I’ll do anything. _Anything. _I’ll never talk back I’ll never fight you I’ll do whatever you _want_ I’ll live here for the rest of my life just—_please. Please_, Sla—master. Master, please, _please_, don’t hurt them. Kill me instead. Torture me—I don’t care, you can—can even—I’ll even let you—” Robin sobs, feeling every inch of himself shake. Broken in front of Slade.

Broken for his friends.

Slade regards him with one cold eye.

Robin stares up with something that could be hope.

“There is_ nothing_ I want from you that I cannot take for myself.”

Tears drip off Robin’s chin. “Do you—do you want me to—to get on my knees, to beg you—to lick your boots—Slade, I can do that, I’ll do it, _please_—”

Dignity seems like such a silly, useless thing in the face of death, washing off like a meaningless façade, Robin raw and bleeding underneath.

“Sometimes,” Slade says lethally, “our actions have consequences.”

“No,” Robin whispers, shaking his head, “no, no, no—”

“_Choose_.”

“I choose you hurt _me._”

“Ah ah, that’s not an option.”

“Then—"

Slade’s eye burns with a cutting cruelty. “I thought you’re supposed to be the team leader, boy. Which one do you think is the most _expendable_?”

Agony blooms in the pale blue. “Wh-Wh-What—no—you—”

“You choose which one dies. Or I kill them all.”

Robin’s mouth is open, lips parted in the pain of it—

And then his fingers are grabbing for the trigger that’s so close in Slade’s hand and right there and if he can only get his hands on it maybe he stands a chance of being a hero, a savior, a—

_Crack_.

Robin stares blankly at the stark white that presses out of his pale skin, cold against the blooming crimson, grotesque shape out of a circus freak show. He’s crying again. He might always have been crying, the agony that spreads from his arm must always have been shooting through everything, gasping and rocking and praying for anything to just make it _stop_. Saliva slips past his lips, trailing in a thin line to his trousers, lost without a care. The center of the pain is cradled close to him, as if that makes it better, as if he can protect himself from Slade’s fists and body by holding it close. Stars go off like fireworks in front of his eyes. _With Kori, on the Ferris Wheel. Looking up at the sky. Smiling and laughing. _The memory is gone as soon as it comes. Robin gasps in agony, mouth open, hand hanging limp at the end of a useless arm. If he looks he’ll be sick.

Slade’s voice is the boom of an elder god, rocking through Robin’s head and making it scream at him, echoing in screaming chambers. “If you try that again, I’ll kill two.”

_Two_.

Two of Robin’s friends dead, lost forever, all to Robin’s foolishness—something he still can’t understand but that stands right in front of him in orange and black and white and blue. That scares him more than his shattered hand or arm or anything he can—

Anything he _could have _imagined Slade doing to him.

Robin shakes his head on fearful instinct, pleading with his eyes—

“That’s what I thought,” Slade purrs. “Now—” The controller gleams “—choose.”

One of them is going to die and there is nothing Robin can do as he sits right here on the cold ground next to Slade. He can’t cause more stupid, foolish damage because he can’t _stop _himself from being selfish and stupid and not a leader at all, but—

Robin sobs again, shoulders shaking. He shakes his head.

Slade’s fingers are almost gentle under his chin, tilting his head up to look in Slade’s unfamiliar face. “I’ll kill them all, pet,” he whispers.

“S-M-Master, please—don’t—"

“All this begging is pathetic, even for you.” His fingers burn on Robin’s skin, he can feel the bruises in every horrible part of him from minutes ago but Robin doesn’t dare move, frozen and trapped by every power that has real meaning, still pinned in front of Slade.

Like the very first time they met.

“Now _choose_,” Slade hisses, suddenly harsh. Robin flinches so hard the man’s hand dislodges, pulling back, looking at him with the eye of a man with no qualms and a conscience pried out of him like his lost eye.

They’re cast in the orange of the screens, turning everything to muted fire, playing on Robin’s skin and uniform and casting highlights on the black of everything. It makes him sick, looking at the things deep in the bodies of his teammates, like Slade—

Like Slade was—

Robin sobs again, shaking. He doesn’t have to look up to see the names writ large on the screens, the names of his teammates. More than teammates. _Friends. Best friends. _The people Robin loves most in the world, loves so much every screaming nerve in pain cries out his love, so much that it’s writ in every bruise on his body and drying on his thighs and bleeding on his lips. Vic who taught Robin how to drive using the _real _rules of the road, yelling in his ear if he got within five feet of scratching his car—sitting on the roof of the tower eating greasy hamburgers while Cyborg updates him on his maintenance routines and criminal movements.

Rae who tried to teach him to meditate and sprayed him with water when he didn’t concentrate and cast a safety spell on his uniform when he broke his arm and doesn’t smile often but smiles the _best_.

Gar—who tries and fails to make people laugh but he cares, and Robin thinks he’s funny even if he doesn’t laugh because Robin barely learned to, but Gar is the one who’s been teaching him to smile the most, even when he throws potato chips at him for winning video games.

Kori who shines twice as bright as the sun and still holds Robin close (too tight) and Robin likes to pretend in his deepest, most embarrassing wishes that she came from the stars to meet just _him_, like fate but spanning worlds and people and ending with the two of them on the roof of Titans Tower.

Every one more deserving of life than Robin. Beast Boy who is the youngest, who grew up and is only now blooming and finding his way, Cy with a career in the League that Batman tells Robin is almost positive, Raven who hides her evil so well and became a hero despite every single thing telling her she couldn’t be, and Star—

Star who Robin loves, Star who Robin is _in love _with, and as he sobs again and again he’s just realizing it, that he loves her as much as a fourteen year old boy can, with every inch of his heart and all the soul he has inside him and Robin could hurt. And every single one of them his responsibility as a leader, as a friend, and how can he condemn them, go against every single thing his soul screams, every single thing carved on his heart—

And he’s _weak_.

So, so, weak.

Tears drip to the floor.

“I can’t,” Robin says softly, rasping in a voice that is barely his own but speaks the depths of what he feels despite it.

“Very well.”

Robin looks up.

Slade’s finger is on the trigger.

The button goes down.

Robin screams as he sees it, fingers that should be reaching but can’t, because if he so much as moves a muscle he will attack Slade and then he will be responsible for more death and more suffering and more _failure_—because they’re all broken and shattered for trying. He lurches forwards anyways like some half-dead thing, coughing and gagging, something meaningless and inhuman crawling forth. They orange light flickers and flashes as he watches the nanobots burn and buzz and _bite_, attacking the insides and making something he doesn’t understand appear on the screen. The insides seem to warp and fold under the nanobots and Robin knows that they are inside his friends, down to their bones, eating them alive from the inside out.

Killing them and making them writhe in pain that _Robin _caused, with his stupidity and every single thing about him that was supposed to be good and heroic and important, hurting the people he loves the most. The people he loves the most.

The words that erupt from his lips are almost more inhuman than Slade’s. “S-stop. STOP! SLADE!” He’s shrieking incoherently, fingers burning, trying to force himself towards the man he hates so much. Something drips down his chin and he realizes it’s saliva, an arm reaching up to almost touch Slade—the hand on top of it broken and worthless, twitching with agony. “PLEASE! I’M SORRY, Slade, please—”

The hand closes around his chin in an impossibly hard grip, something wet against his lips, Slade’s face so close, too close, close enough for those awful lips to pry into Robin’s mouth like they own it but instead he just stands there. Robin can feel the hot breath on his face, making him blink and shudder and cooling the tears on his cheeks.

“_Choose_,” Slade whispers.

“I can’t,” Robin pleads, the words not even coming out of his mouth due to the fingers on his face but Slade knows anyways.

“Then they all die.”

And they will all die.

Screaming and melting and shrieking and they will never be in this world again and it will all be Robin’s fault, the leader, in charge, the boy who was supposed to be able to save his friends. _I know you’re the leader_, Batman had told him. _I trained you_. The red flashes on top of the screen, Robin shuddering and sobbing slightly, and—

He doesn’t have a choice, because he never did, not when it comes to Slade. He’s pounded Robin into the corner he wants and hurt him and force him to fight.

Burn him when he doesn’t, forcing him to stay in the small pen that Slade outlines and his horrid desires and overbearing presence. They will all die each and every one of them. Robin knows that they would all die for each other, for the team—and one of them will have to and Robin is the crux of it, his truer punishment than the simple death.

Gar who is the youngest burning brightest and Vic who’s only just finding himself and Raven who fights so hard and Kori who Robin loves so hard it makes him want to scream louder than he’s ever screamed before and never, ever stop.

Every sob wracks him and shudders through his veins like acid, burning, unable to tell the agony from Slade’s punishment from the incomprehensible pain of his situation, the agony of his friends that crosses the miles and squirms in the marrow of his bones. He’s lost in a swirl of emotion, barely raising a shaking head to meet Slade’s eyes—

Choose.

An impossible, unattainable choice that swirls through Robin’s mind and makes him rethink everything he’s been knowing, everything he understands, nailed to a corner and forced to commit the most atrocious act he’s ever borne witness too, and—

And he thinks of them all, sitting on the couch and playing games, and loving them, and talking, and Robin knows that he is selfish and he knows that he is a coward and he knows that he should have beaten Slade. There is one thought that pulls out of the hurricane, forms the middle of it, slammed into him with a needed force and it slips out of his mouth as he forces every syllable, mouthed wordlessly, not even vocalized under his breath but that would mean the same thing.

Slade smiles.

He flicks a control, and the burning layouts go down to one, only one, burning above him and killing and murdering at Robin’s words, his hand, and he should have chosen something real but there is only one choice he can bear, and—

He knows Raven would forgive him.

Raven, who understands the hell she came from and the hell she lives in, the one closest to Gotham of any of them—even though they’ve all had their hardships and pain, Raven has been there. Raven was born into it. Raven has been through the depths of Robin’s mind and she knows that he is the leader, knows what he must do—what he’s forced to do, by the charge he has over them. She knows him the best, maybe even better than Star at this point, and she would understand.

Raven would look Robin in the eye and she would understand and she would forgive him.

Robin collapses in on himself, a black hole sucking in agony as the chorus of death plays around him.


	13. XIII

Robin wakes up to pain.

It cuts through his consciousness like the light in the place he’s become so used to waking up to, slicing down through his body down the middle and opening all of him up to the cool air. Robin blinks up blankly at the lights, shaking off the last bit of sleep—

His arms and hands burn and cry out, Robin looking down his body to see them in casts, fingers only visible on his left hand. It shakes slightly in his vision. Slade didn’t bother to use anesthetic when he dressed them. Robin realize he’s _un_dressed seconds later, sitting up with a hiss and a curse and then a real cry of pain as he finds pain lower, digging into his core—up his ass.

_Where Slade was_.

Robin stares down as his fingers come into focus, casts still white, unblemished. He notices he’s breathing hard, heart beating quickly, blinking at the hands that he’s almost sure are his own. The fingers bend when Robin commands them.

_Raven_.

The wave of grief that washes over Robin almost drowns him, leaving him breathless and impossibly still, shivering and gasping on agony that curls in his chest and holds him down like a boulder. _Raven, Raven, Raven_—

The door opens and Robin flinches, realizing that the blanket has slipped off of the top of him and Slade can see his torso. Instantly it’s pressed against him, barely any protection against the looming man in the doorway.

White apprentice’s clothes fall to the ground, thrown by Slade’s hand.

Just like every other morning.

Robin looks slowly up at him.

“Get up,” Slade commands.

Robin’s legs are moving before he has the chance to realize, shaking and almost losing his balance as he stumbles to the bathroom. The sheets are wrapped around him so tight it’s hard to move, grabbing the clothes as fast as he can without looking at Slade. They’re clean, white, nothing like the bloodied Renegade uniform he was wearing last—night?

Robin doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know much of anything.

Wide blue eyes keep fixed on the door, terrified that anything could walk through it at any moment, tall with a patch on the right eye and a gleam in the other. Robin shudders as he picks up the clothes, trying to make himself as small as possible should Slade come through the door. He scratches absently, fingers coming away from the back of his thigh—red. Robin blinks, rubbing on his leg more vigorously. Rust lingers under his fingernails, crimson on the pads of his fingers. Some of it stains the cast, awkward and ugly.

_Last evening—_

Something trickles down Robin’s leg, blood, maybe blood, doesn’t _have to be_—

Red stains the corner of the dirty toilet as Robin’s hands lean on the rim. Every inch of his body shudders, bony and weak, expelling the little he had eaten in the past day and a half. Bile keeps coming even after the yellowish scraps of food finish, Robin feeling tears pool in his eyes. He doesn’t bother to wipe them away as he washes his hands off, purposefully avoiding the mirror. The little—blood—he can scrape off on his fingers goes down the drain too.

“Do you need me to dress you, or are you going to do it yourself?”

Every inch of Robin shudders and tenses at the horrid voice, mocking and low, hands going up in front of his face as he kneels down to conceal everything of himself he can. As if Slade hasn’t already seen and touched . . . everything. His breath comes quick, eyes narrowed up at Slade.

The man doesn’t move.

“Get a hold of yourself.”

Pressure from the bottom of the ocean presses on every inch of Robin’s body as he forces himself, hands shaking and bandaged, to pick up the clothes and awkwardly press it against himself. It’s so meaningless to try and preserve his dignity, pressing the clothes against himself as he pulls them on, but Robin can’t bear to think of being exposed to Slade, thinks he would boil alive from the single eye on his skin.

Slade turns, Robin pulling on the last bit of his clothing over his chest. He follows cautiously, eyes on Slade at every point, every muscle tense with the fear of it that seems to leak through him. Something weighs on him, a chain curled around his guts and squeezing when he notices it, making every muscle heavier. Before he reaches the door, Slade turns, Robin’s eyes wide. He takes something out of his belt and for half a second paralyzing fear fills Robin’s every cell—but no, it’s not the remote, it’s too small. He holds it out to Robin.

Fingers barely not shaking take it from him. It’s a small vial, tinted green, easily held in his palm. Eyes look up at Slade questioningly.

“Drink it.”

The thing in his hands fills Robin with a horrible sense of déjà vu, a swirling fear. He licks his lips slightly, unable to stop himself from asking the question. “Is it . . . drugged?”

Robin would like to know, hands shuddering, making him grit his teeth and force himself to stand steady.

Slade raises an eyebrow. “When I fuck you, you’ll be awake.”

Robin visibly flinches, forcing himself not to take a step back from Slade in fear. It wouldn’t make a difference to the situation, to the trigger, to Slade’s hulking form and Robin’s thinner body. Bruises burn on his hips, his neck, hands aching underneath their bandages. The fingers that made them gesture to the bottle in Robin’s hands. “This will heal you faster.”

He could be lying.

Either way, Robin has no choice. Feeling slightly sick, he pulls at the stopper on it. It takes him a few tries with his injured hand, bracing it against his chest and yanking, face burning and staring stubbornly at the ground. It burns as he swallows, all the way down. Slade holds out his hand for the remains of it and Robin doesn’t dare to seriously consider breaking it and taking some of the glass. He watches as it disappears back into Slade’s belt.

The walk to the next room is silent, Robin shivering with every step. The events of the past hours plague him like shrieking spirits, Robin trying desperately to push them down and forget and stop the hot pain in his throat and behind his eyes. His arms hang at his sides, useless. Weak. Makes it so much easier for Slade to hurt him. Gears hum under his feet, giving way to the throne room.

Robin’s eyes widen. No training room—but that’s to be expected, impossible to fight back with his hands the way they are. He feels sick, staring at the floor of it, vivid memories of Slade pressing him down onto the cold ground, tongue wandering up his back—

Slade moves easily, going to sit on his throne as if he rules the place because he does. Robin follows, fear like that he’s never known blooming in his gut at the thought of Slade in this room, unfamiliar and cowardly and _weak_. He can’t stop it as Slade beckons him forward, Robin climbing up the steps that seem so large and impossible, feet somehow still pulling his body forward. He stands face to face with Slade, feeling smaller and more pathetic in his presence than he ever has before.

Now, he is a failure of a hero, someone who has let his team get hurt for him.

“Turn around.”

Robin has to bit down hard, teeth grinding to stop a humiliating noise from slipping out of his mouth and embarrassing him further. He hates not having Slade there so he can keep an eye on him, hates it because this was what Slade was doing when he forced him to the floor.

“Kneel.”

“Please don’t—” Robin says quickly, desperately—

His knees fall out from under him, propelled with a sharp kick he didn’t see coming. Robin’s knees hit the floor, a yelp exiting his mouth as the bruises are bruised more and the shock of it echoes through his bones. It’s pure luck he doesn’t catch himself on his hands, instead splayed on his knees.

Something shameful slips out of him.

“Good,” Slade says. “I thought I told you that’s where you belong.” Robin stares at the cold floor, vibrations and ice pressing their way up through his legs, slumped there.

_I should put you on your knees more often._

A soft sob slips from Robin’s lips.

A soft laugh slips from Slade’s.

“Have some dignity, boy.”

Robin’s teeth grit. He forces back tears as best he can. Dignity is the last thing on his mind.

All he can think of is Raven, splayed on the ground.

“You killed her,” he whispers. _She’s dead. How can he expect me to . . ._

_Not to grieve?_

Robin’s face still burns.

“_You _killed her,” Slade corrects. “I just pressed the button. Take some responsibility.”

“You _made me_ choose!”

Robin can almost hear his shrug. “You could’ve chosen someone else.”

“It still—that wouldn’t—that’s not _better_!” Robin says incredulously. He finds one of his legs propping himself up, moving him out of the kneeling position. His eyes burn. “I care about _all _my teammates! I bet you’ve never cared about anyone in your whole life!”

“You didn’t even know my _name_,” Slade murmurs. “Why pretend you know anything else about me?”

“I can _tell_,” Robin hisses, hate in his voice. “You’re a horrible, twisted, awful person.” He can’t see Slade’s face. He thinks his voice might crack if he had to look into that awful eye. “I don’t think _anybody’s _ever loved you. You don’t deserve it. I hope you never have children—I hope you have to choose between them!” His voice is rising. “I hope they die! I wish you would die! I wish—”

Robin’s face slams into the dais. He tastes blood, feels it everywhere, almost drowning in it as he presses uselessly against the ground. Fingers ache and try to bend. His bare feet kick against the bottom of Slade’s throne. Inexorable weight crushes his windpipe, Robin’s eyes rolling back and stars mocking him as he thrashes.

Slowly, the pressure eases, Robin choking and gasping in its wake. Saliva trails out of his lips. Slade looms over him, and Robin can see his shadow.

“That’s enough of your inanity,” Slade growls.

Robin sucks in as much air as he can, not listening. The anger bleeds out of him with desperation for breath. Everything aches.

His heart aches, down to every vein.

The boot leaves its purchase, Robin pushing himself as best he can as he hears Slade retreat behind him. He wipes his mouth, rough on his lips.

“Apologize,” Slade snaps. Robin’s eyes close. He thinks of Raven.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

“You are _sorry _for your disrespect,” Slade tells him. “Say it.”

“I’m sorry for my disrespect,” Robin repeats dully. The whip marks on his back ache. His eyes bore holes in the floor.

“I do not pretend to be well-liked,” Slade says coldly. “But for someone who just gave the word to kill a so-called friend and stole from the rest of his ‘team’—well, I’m _sure _they’ll be understanding.”

Robin opens his mouth.

He closes it again.

His nose bleeds down his front. Fighting with Slade isn’t worth it, he tells himself, but something is choking in his throat. _Pathetic_.

He can’t let his voice break in front of Slade. Not again.

Slade is shifting behind him and Robin can hear it, ears straining as best they can, trying to stop himself from shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. The forced vulnerability chafes at every part of him.

Every muscle tenses as something presses against his shoulder, shifting slightly, and then settling. Weight bears down on Robin’s body, not too much but still there. It takes a few seconds for Robin to realize that it’s Slade’s boots on his shoulders, the rough treads that have kicked him so many times before resting perilously close to his head. He can’t move, pinned down by the force, head bowing slightly because of the strength of keeping it up. All he can see is the cold ground and his knees resting next to his broken hands.

Slade’s boots dig into him as Robin kneels there, in front of his throne, knees beginning to ache after god knows how long—he can’t move, refuses to ask Slade to let him move. At least he’s not being beaten half to death on the floor of the training room for not fighting back correctly or missing a move.

Some dignity left. Enough not to wince or let Slade see how it burns. Slade’s right, after all, he can do whatever he wants. Robin isn’t going to let anything happen any more. He doesn’t think he could take that, letting another one of his friends die.

There is some part of him that thinks that might be better, because has he sits there, muscles slowly beginning to tense as he weight bears down on him, all he can do is think.

Think of Slade holding him down, the aching where he penetrated him and what he thinks is still inside him, instead of drying on his bedsheets. Robin hopes he’s not shaking. He probably is. The worst of it is still pressed down so far in his gut, still setting him alight with agony he’s only felt once before:

Kneeling like this, he can almost see the bodies of his parents spread out, broken and bloodied, bones pressing through the skin and glassy eyes staring at him when they had been staring into him seconds before, bright and alive and now . . .

Robin was supposed to become strong enough never to let anyone else die. He’s failed, and Raven . . .

Raven is nothing but a cold body now, glassy eyes staring under her mask as her friends must have screamed to see her fall, gathering around, tears gathering in Cyborg’s one human eye—

Tears pricking behind Robin’s as he wishes he could clench his fists. Instead, nerves fire painfully as he presses against the casts. Slade’s weight shifts slightly on his back, aching.

_Focus on the pain_. Focus on Slade’s heels digging into him, the bruises on his knees, not Raven or Slade hurting him or the things that make his soul ache. Robin tenses, digging slightly into Slade, making himself hurt more. Focusing on the nerves that reach his brain, the distraction.

He can’t tell how long he sits there, Slade resting on him, obviously doing work of some kind—Robin can hear the scratching on paper. He didn’t know what exactly he assumed that Slade did when Robin wasn’t around but it wasn’t this, though now that he thinks of it he supposes being a mercenary must take some coordination. Or perhaps Slade is simply playing with him, relishing in simply having Robin beneath his feet as he does what he likes. Robin is too dead to care about the humiliation of it. He simply stares at the floor, sore neck drooping as the time wears on so slowly it feels like something is scraping excruciatingly along his skin, shredding off the top layer.

The light blinks on slowly, Robin flinching so hard he’s sure Slade can feel it as the screen lights up. He can’t raise his head far enough to see it, so he doesn’t try, sure it’s just another layout of whatever awful thing Slade is planning.

“Thank you for taking time out of your busy—” a rough voice begins and Robin’s eyes widen, head shooting up as far as he can—Slade’s shoes press down hard on him in warning. The voice is almost familiar, should be something that Robin can figure out.

“Get to the point,” Slade demands from above him, bored, the tone of voice almost making Robin shudder.

_Can they see me? _he wonders, suddenly anxious, trying to stare up and get a good look at the light. All he can see is white leering down at him, casting his knees in sharp contrast to the floor beneath them. The thought is awful, and he clings to it, because it’s not as awful as the real things that swim in his subconscious.

If anyone could see him like this, Robin thinks he would lose himself to the pain of it, to the sheer humiliation of _Slade_, the one person he hates more than anything in the world, his worst enemy, holding him down like he is. It burns more than the pain against his knees, mouth a tight line as he grimaces at the ground.

“About the contract . . . “ Robin’s ears perk up, body tensing slightly. This is Slade’s private line, he realizes, the man’s private _life_. Everything Robin would have given an arm and a leg to know so many—months?—ago—_An arm and a leg but not _this. Robin shoves the thought aside with all the force he has left of his will. _I am here, now_. The voice is familiar enough that he knows and this—

This is something Robin understands. Detective work, learning, even if it comes at the horrible cost of kneeling under Slade’s boots. _I can report back to the Titans and add it to my intel_, Robin realizes, he knows that if he focuses on anything else he will fold under Slade’s heel like poorly done origami, because if Robin can get out—

Robin _will _get out. He _will _tell his friends about this and then investigate Slade and bring him in and everything will be just as it was.

And for that to happen Robin has to lay so still that Slade has no idea what he’s doing, and strain every inch of his brain for the conversation happening above him.

“It’s done,” Slade says. “I will deliver the item when the agreed upon payment is sent.”

“A timely delivery.” Robin struggles to recognize the voice, so sure that he has to have remembered something from the extensive files that he keeps on every villain he can find. Voice clips aren’t usually included in them unless the videos have the villains speaking, and Robin curses himself for his oversight.

“You wanted the best,” Slade drawls. “I _am _the best.”

“Naturally, naturally,” murmurs the other voice absently, something flickering on the screen that Robin can’t quite see, even when he rolls his eyes so far back into his head they hurt. “Your fee will be sent, and I trust the item will be at the pickup in . . .”

“Twelve hours,” Slade says.

“Good.” A pause. “The Brotherhood thanks you for your service.”

“They can thank me in _cash_.” The lights flicker off, Robin staring at his injured hands.

_The Brotherhood. _It’s vague enough—Robin is sure there are lots of Brotherhoods, but it’s something to go on.

It’s a lead, and that’s something he can pour his brain into. Robin grabs onto it with as much of his mind as he can and digs his fingers into it.

The Brotherhood of . . . what? Nefarious Villainy? Evil Deeds?

It seems to dissolve in his hands, because Robin has nothing more to do than to hold it in his mind until he has some way to get it out, which he _will_, which he _has to_—

Yet he has to hope that something unforeseen will happen and he is rescued and his friends aren’t hurt at all but they _are_, Raven is _dead _by Robin’s mistakes and it seems so stupid to worry about a little shipment now when nothing can ever be the same again, when Slade has his claws in Robin so irrevocably, and Robin can’t figure out where it all went wrong at all.

He knows it’s his fault.

The tears that trickle down his face go unseen by Slade, because there’s no way he could be reaching around to look even if Robin feels terribly exposed by his weakness, pawing at his eyes with fingers that don’t work. He can’t have it here, even as he shakes slightly, the agony too much to bear at once. Robin shoves it down, pushing it away as best he can—in the way he knows that Bruce has that rare skill to, the grimacing of lines and glaring of the eyes that he’s witnessed so many times before from the tortured Bat. He remembers stared with glassy eyes when his parents died and he pulls that feeling here, pushing the agony of emotion into the pain of Slade’s shifting boots on his back and onto his knees, enduring it as best he can.

It’s only god knows how much later, after he’s used the freezing water in the sink to try to pry every little bit of Slade left in him out, face buried in the small pillows so that every breath he takes fills him with the dusty smell of the complex, that he sobs. He sobs when he remembers Raven, cries because it’s his fault, tears staining his face and the blanket underneath it until they’re wet. His bruised body shakes as he curls up against himself, the only warmth he has—alone with his mistakes and failures and wave after wave of drowning regret washing over him and pulling him further out to sea. His chest aches, Robin sobbing so long and so hard it feels like it will never stop, something tearing him apart from the inside out and making his body jerk forward with silent, agonized cries of the pain he doesn’t know how to keep inside.

His parents, so long ago, said that crying was supposed to make you feel better. Robin doesn’t think there’s enough crying in the world that could make this better. There is an ocean of agony in his soul and there is not enough tears he could cry that would expel it through his eyes and onto the ground.

Robin doesn’t know when he falls into a salty sleep, hands folded close to his chest, blanket wrapped around himself as tightly as it can be.

* * *

Everything aches when Robin wakes up, bending back so slowly so that the muscles around his spine don’t scream at him. He could swear there were two boot shaped bruises on his back. His soul burns in him, too much for his body, Robin staring with blank eyes at the ceiling as he lays there until Slade snaps at him to get out.

Yesterday it hurt. Today, it’s hard to care, knelt on the cold floor and shivering under Slade’s dominion, the tiles swimming beneath his eyes. Robin feels like a statue of a boy, something for Slade to rest his feet on and nothing more. There’s comfort in that, almost, eyes looking into nothing as pain digs into him.

_The rest of the team is still alive. Do you really want to let Slade win?_

The words ring true in his mind, and he knows, but he doesn’t feel. His emotions have been lobotomized, and Robin wonders if this is exactly how Slade wants him.

That thought makes his teeth clench, and Robin knows then that he is not totally gone. No matter what Slade may think, or how he himself may feel in the singular moment.

Slade’s feet move off of him, Robin’s aching neck turning up slightly. The back of Slade’s boot nudges him. Robin’s in half of a daze, reflexes not moving right away, and he cries out when Slade kicks him.

“Get up, boy.” Robin scrambles to his feet, stumbling down the steps and turning to keep Slade in his line of vision. His knees hurt when they bend to make him stand. Slade is half obscured in the darkness, now that the screens he was using to work have been turned off, a half-man in bloody orange. Robin feels his incapable hands wanting to make fists, to defend himself from the man who stands in front of him. Instead, he follows behind in hurried footsteps to match Slade’s long strides. They go to the training room, and Robin almost opens his mouth to question Slade before he’s gestured to a corner of the place. “Sit.”

It feels good not to kneel, to be able to stretch out in the small corner of the training room. Robin leans against the wall with a small sigh of relief, aching muscles lurching into some semblance of peace. He has to keep pressure off his ass, because it still screams at him, slumping slightly. Slade ignores him, pulling at a _bo _staff, staring around the room at the targets. He twirls it in his fingers, Robin unable to take his eyes off of him, and then Slade dips into motion.

It must be a regular workout routine for him, Slade moving into motion. He’s a flurry of movement and strikes, hair flickering as he moves. The pace increases, Robin’s breath almost catching in . . . awe, at how fast he moves. It’s even faster than he is sparring against Robin, faster than he’s seen him move in a fight before. Robin can barely make out traces of _taekwondo _and _jujitsu _in the quick movement, the impact hitting almost before Slade’s _bo _hits the soft targets.

Every little bit of it is terrifying. It never scared Robin before, but now . . . now, looking at Slade’s form, he shivers at trying to match him or escape. At trying to keep his friends safe. He tries to follow the movement—to learn or predict it, maybe, but . . .

He’s so tired.

Hungry, too. Sore.

_Focus. Be a Detective._

Robin tries to figure out if Slade has any weaknesses on his left side, but he’s looked at that before to. It never pans out.

Robin knows now that there is no way Slade can possibly be human. Not even Batman can move that fast. Slade has to be some kind of meta, and Robin’s almost proud for a second, because he knows he’s theorized it on before back at the tower.

The tears trickling down his cheek are all that alert him to the fact that he’s crying, shuddering as he remembers Raven, remembers crying on the floor at her death. Robin bites his lip, stares at Slade, remembers Slade _using _him—his body—so callously. He tries to push himself back into the state he was before, staring at the flurry of strikes that slur together into a mesmerizing pattern of violence, trying again to feel nothing.

It almost works as Robin’s consciousness lets go of him let again, falling into a half there rest.

* * *

“Don’t be lazy,” Slade is snarling in his ear. Robin jerks awake with a start that echoes through his whole body—quite literally. He’s pulled to his feet by a rough fist, feet kicking slightly before they’re set back down. Slade is displeased, and that fills Robin with fear. “Sorry,” he insists, trying halfheartedly to pull his neck out of Slade’s grip on his collar. Slade gives a cynical flick of the eyebrow before pulling Robin behind him, half dragging through the sterile corridors to his room. Robin feels some relief in it, the desire to sleep almost totally overpowering him as he’s pushed into the room. He’s almost half asleep as he stumbles to the bed that has been his only source of comfort for the past weeks and crumples down on top of it.

It’s almost enough to dull the pain as he pulls the blanket over himself, mind whirring—enough to make the problems he’s sometimes had with insomnia beforehand, but this time, Robin truly prays for everything to shut down.

It doesn’t. It seems incapable of it, not quite able to let him pass out as he stares at the ceiling and he _hates_. He hates Slade, of course, a new kind of hate festering in his gut. The feeling scares him.

Not as much as Slade does, though.

Robin feels another kind, too, a worse one. _A hero? _it mocks, its timbre of Slade’s. _You couldn’t even save your friends. You got them _killed. Robin brings up his face and slams it back into the pillow, burying it so all he can see is darkness and he can barely breathe, hoping that if he stays there everything will go away. It’s horribly childish but he can’t help the relief he feels at the fantasy, rubbing at his face so hard it’s raw as he leaves tearstains on the pillow.

Heroes are supposed to save their friends. They’re supposed to win, to beat the bad guy. Robin knows that heroes are supposed to do this because that’s what _Batman _does, every time, and Robin . . .

Robin isn’t _good _enough. Not good enough to be the leader after he let Raven die—after he _gave Slade her name_, slipping so easily through his lips, like a coward and a failure and a fool. Not good enough to be Batman’s Robin, not worthy of the title of his protégé after _this_.

He would give it all up if it meant getting Raven back but Robin has let down himself, everything he claims to have stood for and all the skills he pretends to have had, and nothing prepared him for this. For Slade, for a villain he should have been able to take on—

God, forget taking on. How stupid is he? So weak he couldn’t even keep his _friends _safe, and he thinks he could go up against someone like Slade . . .

Robin shudders under the blankets, unable to stop the sobbing. He’s just glad Slade can’t see him like this. Just glad to keep the little dignity he has left, that Slade isn’t horribly intent on stripping from him. And if Slade . . . if Slade can pin him down and rape him and whisper in his ear about how much he’s enjoying himself, then Slade can do anything, so many things Robin can’t even imagine. It’s like the world has suddenly snapped into darkness, a lurking fear of a child with a nightlight, but this fear is real and it’s here and it’s not going away.

Heroes shouldn’t feel that kind of childish fear but it creeps along Robin’s mind and poisons his thoughts and makes him shudder in the careless blackness. He can almost see Slade’s form, Slade’s fingers reaching out.

_Not a hero._

“I . . . am Robin,” he mumbles at the ceiling.

For the first time, he doesn’t believe his own words as they echo in the small room.


	14. XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin learns the new status quo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY READERS KEEP REMINDING ME TO POST . . . . guys i luv u uwu (and i'm sorry)

Slade doesn’t let Robin out of the sight of his cold grey eye and he seems intent on making him as uncomfortable as possible—and not letting him get enough sleep. Robin finds himself wondering if Slade just _ lives _like this, getting up early and going to bed late, working every second of the day. He’s busy in the throne room, talking on the phone, training. Robin imagines he’s starting to imprint his knees on the floor on the dais, in front of Slade. The man forces Robin to run laps until he’s exhausted, leaning smugly against the wall and watching with a critical crook of an eyebrow.

Robin learns to be afraid to disappoint him, to be so tired his body doesn’t cooperate, or to collapse. Slade always hits him when he’s disappointed, and sometimes when he’s not. Some days, Robin can tell by the look in his eye whether he has to work himself into collapsing or whether he can stop, panting, against the wall as he tries against Slade’s impossible standards. It’s as if he expects Robin to be as superhuman as he is.

But Robin’s not. No matter how much it irritates him—no matter how much he’s been secretly proud of it, late at night, the only nonmeta member of the team, he’s only a human.

There is nothing he loathes more than the eye watching him. Robin’s fingers begin to flex slightly as they begin to heal in only a few days—agonizing, yes, but impressive. He imagines stabbing it out, and the thought gives him some satisfaction. It’s impossible to relax around Slade, and yet . . .

He realizes he’s grown complacent the night he collapses onto the bed, legs shuddering beneath him, longing, finally for sleep. The door closes with a sharp noise. Gold light will stay for the next few minutes, and Robin is sometimes completely out before it turns into darkness. Fingers dig into the thin mattress . . .

Bootsteps move inexorably behind him, Robin’s face lifting, turning around. Slade stands in the room, halfway to him, still in the black t shirt and pants he wears to exercise. He stands out like a lack of substance in the room, promising some horrible fate. The fear that impales Robin to the bed is cold, jolting down every part of him. Every muscle freezes, caught in ice—caught in the cold of Slade’s stare.

Robin’s mouth opens to ask as Slade approaches the bed. The blanket around him suddenly doesn’t seem like protection enough for the horrors of the outside world, his body shaking slightly under it.

Slade’s finger hooks in his belt, the eye regarding Robin with a detached sort of carelessness. Fingers play at the buckle.

Robin’s head is shaking before he knows what he’s doing, pulling the blanket further around himself. His bare feet scrabble against the bed, pushing him back against the wall and the headboard. Fear jolts through him, cold turning to hot desperation. “N-n-n-“

“Something to say, boy?” Slade’s belt slips out of the loops, Robin able to count them as the end slides through them, winding around Slade’s hand. Slade’s right there, suddenly, the belt set at the end of Robin’s bed. The heels of his feet scrape again, trying to push him back, hands wrapping around his own shuddering body. All he can think of—all he can imagine—is Slade, Slade in him and pinning him down and the sheer horror of it, and Robin knows he won’t be able to endure it. Not again. Not after that. The noise that comes out of his mouse is pathetic and useless but he can’t find it in him to care, not with desperation overcoming him like a wave.

“P-p-p-please,” Robin begs, pleading with his eyes.

Slade’s knees hit the mattress with a low groan of the springs, the hulking body in what should be the darkness but is instead the bright light, the horror unstoppable by childish superstition. This is real evil, right in front of him.

“Come here,” Slade says, the tone of a father talking to a disobedient child.

Tears trickle down Robin’s face. “Please. Please, not—not again, I can’t . . . “ his voice gives way to shudders. The horror of it stands out in his memory like a gash, oozing blood, inconceivable in its crimson agony. Robin shudders again, huddling in the corner. “A-anything else, I – I don’t want—”

He screams, loud and sharp, when Slade’s hand closes around his ankle. Robin grabs at the sheets as they’re dragged along with him, Robin slipping to the foot of the bed. He stares up at Slade’s cold eye, hovering above him with a cruel quirk to the brow. The sound that passes Robin’s lips is pathetic and humiliating. He hates how he’s acting—and he knows that he can’t take it. Not again, not ever again, not _that_.

Robin’s hands claw at Slade’s chest, trying to push the encroaching body off him. As he tries to wiggle away, a heavy hand clamps on his wrist, squeezing so tight Robin can feel the bone ache. “None of that,” Slade purrs. “We wouldn’t want a repeat of the unfortunate incident with your friend, would we?”

Robin stares up at him with wide, horrified eyes that fill with tears. “P-please . . . _please don’t_ . . .”

A hand pushes up Robin’s stomach, hiking up his shirt and exposing pale, bruised skin. Skin tainted by Slade’s hands only a little bit ago.

“If you relax, you might learn to like it,” Slade reprimands. A vicious tone. “Or not. I don’t particularly care. But it’s going to happen either way.”

_Like it?_

The thought is laughable, impossible.

He tries to blink away the water in his eyes but it only trickles down the sides of his face. _ Raven, Raven . . . the team. _ A short sob chokes out through his lips, shuddering as Slade’s rough hand takes in his skin. He has to—he has to stay here, there’s not a _ choice _to fight back any more. Robin has never felt more claustrophobic, the walls of possibility closing in on his mind and forcing him to exist in the moment, in this singular path that Slade has chosen for him and beaten him into.

This can’t be happening.

But it is.

Robin whimpers, low in his throat. Slade’s fingers hook into Robin’s waistband and he sobs again, head thrown to the side so he doesn’t have to look into Slade’s face. He can still feel Slade’s breath (some kind of mint—toothpaste, maybe?) on him, smell it, making him sick to his stomach. Air cuts across his ass again, his clothing pried down his thighs and pulled off of his feet, hanging limply and uncooperative. Sobs shake his body, hand falling boneless as Slade drops it to attend to his own garments. Robin opens his eyes slightly at the noise and sobs again. He can see Slade’s cock, slipping out of the briefs that Slade wears—veined and red in the midst of coarse white hair. It’s too big Robin can’t believe it was _in _him—in his body—

Tears slip down his cheeks as Robin closes his eyes just to stare at the swirling colors behind him, a place he wishes he could escape to with his body and soul. He cries out slightly as Slade spreads his legs. They ache, recently healed scabs cracking slightly at Slade’s fingers pushing against his cheeks. It’s going to hurt soon so much more, Slade will tear him open again and Robin can’t do a thing about it. He shivers.

_Please—please don’t let him do this—Batman, Bruce, anyone—_

The tip of Slade’s cock prods at his entrance, should be too big to slip into him but Slade will force it, bending Robin to any shape he cares to want. Robin’s head shakes, legs shuddering slightly, unable to do anything at all at the angle they’re forced into by Slade’s hands. The helplessness makes him really start to shake and then he’s screaming as Slade enters him for a second time, tears him open for a second time. He’s invaded, helpless to stop it, shuddering against the man on top of him and kicking—he can’t help it, can’t help trying to push himself off of Slade’s cock and up into the rest of the bed, as useless as it is. It doesn’t feel like a body part in him, it feels like a spear, meant to cut into him and cause as much pain as possible. Slade snaps his hips and Robin cries out again, trying to bite back noise he’s let out so many times before.

The only sensation is friction as Slade speeds up, raising Robin’s hips with cruel hands to dig deeper into him. Robin’s jostled with every painful movement, trying not to cry out as his old wounds (only recently healed from the earlier intrusion) tear open under Slade’s onslaught. He fails, blood only making Slade’s penetration easier. Robin’s head jerks with every yanking thrust. His face burns with exertion, hands digging into the sheets next to his body without his awareness. Robin feels like _nothing _under Slade’s brutality, less than nothing, something worthless and meaningless. That hurts more than the physical pain, pushed to the ground without a care in the world just because Slade _wants._

Robin finds himself still sobbing when Slade comes in him again, unable to stop his shaking breath and every shuddering muscle. It feels so _wrong_, hot and slick and deep in him, just above the stretching of his muscles Slade forces into him. He gags, trying to close his eyes tighter. He remembers being so young he could pretend that he was invisible if he closed his eyes very tightly.

Slade’s fingers drift over his chest, Robin trying to shudder away but only moving Slade’s member still inside him, gasping with the pain of it. “It hurts less when I get what I want,” Slade hums. His fingers drift to Robin’s chin, eyes still shut tight, hating every single touch. Robin can feel him leaning in, the boy still pressing his face to the side to avoid looking and seeing that awful face in front of him. “Remember I own you, boy.” Fingers tap the collar, still heavy and sick around Robin’s neck. “I’ll use you for whatever I like.”

His cock slips out of Robin with a slick noise, muscles loose behind it—still sticky with cum. Robin’s thighs shut behind him, curling up and retreating to the end of the bed as soon as Slade’s hand leaves him. He’s sticky and violated, pulling at his collar as if he can dislodge it. Eyes open slowly, pried apart by sheer force of will, and there’s Slade at the end of the bed. He’s slipping his belt back on, grinning at Robin before turning and leaving the room. There’s too much light for the grin on his face to send that much fear coursing through Robin’s veins. The lock on the door is for once a comfort, even though it will do nothing to stop Slade’s roving fingers.

Robin’s hands go up to meet his cheeks, wet from tears of pain. He rubs them away roughly and they burn. His thighs are sticky with Slade and it burns on his body, still sick and drying. Robin tries to rub it off his thighs with his sheets even as it still drips out of him. He pushes fingers up in himself, shuddering at the sensation and the blood because it’s hot and awful and it’s Slade in _Robin’s _body, where it should never be. It wipes off slightly red on the sheets and Robin realizes belatedly he can’t sleep on them like this.

The lights go out halfway through Robin’s fevered stripping of the bed, throwing the sheets on the floor and as far away from him as they can possibly be. They’re sick on his hands, every little bit of Slade Robin can find wiped off on it. He wraps the other part of it around him like a blanket, on the bare and uncomfortable mattress.

_Raven . . ._

He can almost see her, lingering in the darkness, if he looks hard enough. Robin closes his eyes again, as much as he can, burying his face in the pillow. It’s wet with tears but it’s not sticky with cum, Robin holding onto it like it can save him. Like anything can, from Slade.

From Slade, who’s done it again, who’s going to hurt him again who says he’ll kill again, from the guilt that tears Robin apart from inside his gut and doesn’t give him a moment of rest. Robin wishes he could escape it all, disappear into the ground. Go back to Wayne Manor and have a cucumber sandwich and Alfred assure him all his well.

He sobs.

Raven is gone.

Slade’s—

Nothing can ever be the same again. Not after this. The Titans are broke and Robin sobs, heaving, grief shaking him. Grief for Raven, grief for the life he lost that he didn’t know to appreciate. Studying and leading and _friends_.

Not Slade and Slade’s fingers.

Robin is glad Slade can’t hear the pathetic whimpering coming from him, shaking as he tries to cradle himself like nobody else can. It’s cold and uncomfortable and Raven is _dead_.

And Slade’s going to hurt him again.

And again.

And again.

_For Starfire_, Robin thinks. He sobs again, shaking every bit of his soul and his body. _Star, Kori—_

Slade will kill her.

Robin sobs again.

He’ll kill all of them unless Robin lays under him and lets him have his way with every part of Robin that doesn’t belong to him. That should be Robin’s.

That isn’t meant for Slade and bleeds between Robin’s thighs as he curls up in the pathetic bed and tries to make himself small enough to avoid Slade’s eye. Every part of him aches, every part of him is exhausted, and he wants nothing more than to slip into the relief of sleep for however long he can.

It comes slow and aching and he dips into its depths as easily as Slade dips into his body.

* * *

Robin stares with dull eyes as Slade comes into his room and demands he dress. He aches, low in his chest, more painful than Robin’s ever felt in his life. It hurts to move and get up, an aching low in his body that he has to rub his eyes to stop from making him tear up. The small liquid smears on his casts, rough on his eyelids.

There’s blood on the mattress when Robin gets up, wrapped in the sheet, white and red and filthy. Robin bites his lip and looks away and tries to ignore it. He couldn’t get it all out of him last night, now filthy on his bed. Robin shudders, tries to ignore it, feet on the cold floor.

Slade stares, Robin trying to protect his body as best he can. The sheet between them makes him feel better, even though . . .

Even though Slade can have whatever he likes. He’s made that clear enough. Robin’s face burns slightly as he shudders into the bathroom, ashamed of—his weakness, of Slade’s easy advantage. Of his begging, every sobbing word of the breakdown. Robin should be stronger than that, even for—even for _this_.

He should be a hero.

And yet everything is so terribly hard, impossible. It takes so much of him to fight back against Slade even for the littlest time. He can’t—because his friends are here.

Robin stares at the clothes, struggling to pull them on as fast as he can while staring daggers at the door. Making sure that Slade isn’t there to look in on him—to rape him again. Nothing is safe. Nowhere, here, is safe from Slade’s reach and his hands and his teeth. The clothes are rough on his skin but they aren’t Slade’s hands, and that’s good enough for Robin, glad they’re loose enough to barely expose him. He doesn’t know if he could take Slade _looking _at him like . . . like he always does, but really seeing this time. The way Slade always looks at him: like he owns him, like he’s looking through Robin’s soul and decided to only keep some of it, to twist the rest into whatever he wants.

Is that what’s happening? Is that why Robin’s begging so easily? Is it because Slade is . . .

_winning?_

No—not that can’t be—because Robin can’t be bending to his will. It’s against everything that he should be. A hero, a son, a protégé. A leader.

Slade . . . Slade is already winning, already _won_, and Robin—Robin can’t believe that. He refuses to believe that, even as he thinks of Raven, surely screaming and melting and dying all alone.

Maybe Slade has won. Maybe he has Robin for himself, fingers on his body. Maybe he’s hurt the Titans too much to come back from and maybe Robin’s a poor excuse for a leader and maybe . . .

Maybe Robin will be here for the rest of his life but he will never, _never _give in to what Slade wants of him. He can fight—he will fight. Just with his mind, because he will _know_.

“_I _am_ Robin_.” The words ring out strong in the small bathroom, Robin narrowing his eyes as at the face in the mirror. Intense blue looks back at him, and yet . . .

The mirror shows a boy with scraggly unwashed hair, grown too far out over the course of months. His eyes have shadows under them, purple and almost indistinguishable from the bruise on his cheek, courtesy of Slade. White clothes hang limply over a physique that’s been slowly chipped away at, underfed and overworked. The muscle mass Robin remembers has been lost. The eyes that look back at him are haunted and angry, no longer enclosed in the domino mask he prized so highly. No longer clad in the Robin uniform he wore so proudly.

Something peaks around the edge of his neck, Robin tilting it slightly to see what kind of blemish. Purple and red marks blur in a rude circle.

Bile is in his throat and Robin chokes it down, something vicious on his throat, and all he can think of are Slade’s fingers probing into him and Slade’s teeth on his shoulder and Slade’s breath in his ear. His own visage blurs with angry squinting of his eyes.

_I am Robin._

_I’m ROBIN!_

Robin’s one fist that can bend slams into the mirror in front of him. The not-Robin in the glass shudders and cracks, slightly off kilter, just like its essence. Shocks of pain radiate up his arm, Robin barely biting back a cry of pain. His knuckles bleed crimson, trickling down his hand and staining the cast, cracked like the mirror.

He hits it again, hand shaking with the pain as he propels it towards the glass with all his effort. This time it truly shatters, pieces crashing to the floor. One grazes Robin’s cheek, drawing the tiniest slit of blood. Blood stains the empty wall behind it, the middle of the mirror pulled away to reveal white brick behind it. Just as shallow as everything else. Robin pants slightly with the exertion of anger, shockwaves of pain radiating up his arm. Blood trickles to the floor.

Something shivers down the back of his neck.

Robin turns. He flinches when he sees Slade standing in the doorway, staring at the mirror in front of him and the shards around his feet.

_That might not have been a good idea._

“Come here,” Slade says, deceptively neutral, and Robin knows he’s in trouble. Slade’s dispassionate eye stares at him, ready to dole out punishment. Bare feet find their way around the dangerous shards until Robin stands in front of Slade’s intimidating form.

“Tell me what you did wrong, apprentice.”

Robin’s eyes close briefly. He could argue. Argue and get hurt.

_I am Robin._

_I can _pretend.

“I hit the mirror.”

“You destroyed my property,” Slade corrects. His hand holds Robin’s before Robin can stop him, wide eyes staring at the blood pooling there. “And damaged my property.” His eye bores into Robin. Robin looks away. “Apologize.”

Glass glints in the cheap electronic lights. Robin’s fingers want to clench around Slade’s hand. They don’t.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

Pain shatters across his face seconds after he sees Slade’s other hand raised dangerously. Robin tastes blood, rocking back on his heels to avoid falling. His eyes look cautiously back at Slade’s still nonchalant face. “That’s for wasting my time.” He leans in. “I don’t have time or patience for your tantrums.”

Robin’s dragged roughly by the collar, stumbling behind Slade as he shudders at the pressure on the back of his neck. “. . . Learn your place,” Slade mutters under his breath.

The throne room is as cold and strange as it ever was— beginning to become familiar, with the amount of time Robin has been spending in it.

The thought makes him shiver.

Today, Slade doesn’t slam him down at the foot of the throne. Robin shivers slightly in apprehension, but all Slade does is pull him over to the computers. He lets go as his fingers flash over the input screen.

Robin’s eyes glance down, but the man’s body obscures any information he might get from his hands. He might have seen a finger hit the _w _but then again—

“I assume your brain still functions?” Slade sounds like he’s a in a bad mood. Robin tenses, nodding. Slade mutters something under his breath about broken boys, and Robin feels his hands ache. The injuries have been getting better, far quicker than Robin thought possible, but Slade seems upset with the progress. Robin can’t pretend he’s enthusiastic to spend so much time as Slade’s glorified footrest, either.

The humiliation burns like a rock in his stomach.

Slade pushes him aside so Robin can’t see the screen. All he can see are his bare feet next to Slade’s vicious boots, probably still stained with his blood—back from when Robin fought back, when his foolishness lead to—

A wave of pain so sharp he has to shut his eyes as tight as he can just to weather it rocks through him. Robin tries to wrestle it back into whatever crack of his mind it came from. He’s instantly distracted by Slade dragging him by the collar again, this time just a few feet. Robin’s almost pulled off his feet and falls half-against Slade, hands on his arm and one on his hip to steady himself before he realizes what he’s doing. Robin jolts himself away from the warmth with a hiss, every part of him shaking. He’s still taking deep breaths to try to get under control when Slade shoves something towards him, unaffected.

“Read it.”

Robin blinks at the book in front of him, slowly taking in the title. _The Art of War_. _Sun Tzu_.

“I’ve read this,” he says.

“Read it again,” Slade snaps at him. He turns and Robin follows, sitting again at the foot of the throne, obedient. Slade is angry today, which is bad—Robin probably has something to do with that. He shudders, trying not to think of—of anything at all, nothing that’s happened or is going to happen.

The words are a comfort, old and familiar from when Robin read it when he was—eleven? It was one of the many books Bruce had—

Don’t think about Bruce.

Robin struggles to ground himself. _Think about the book, think about the book, think about the book. _It makes sense, it’s there, and if he looks at one singular word after another and lets their meaning fill his mind he won’t have to think about anything at all but what he’s supposed to be reading. His hands turn the pages stiffly, purposefully, trying desperately to force his tired and exhausted body to accept the distraction.

A small sound almost escapes him when he feels Slade’s boot on his shoulder, close to his face. Robin imagines he can smell blood still on the treads of it, Robin’s or god knows who Slade murdered. He closes his eyes tight, pushing his face away so that he doesn’t have to smell it. They only open again to stare at the small black words on the yellowed page, to do his best to think only of it.

Raven swims behind his eyes and Robin pushes her down. Fear trickles through him as the day wears on, Robin trying to push it away. He knows he’s going to be punished, because Slade won’t let him get away with something as subversive as his actions. He’s in a bad mood, too, and Robin is going to hurt, and—

And it can’t be his friends, it _can’t_, Robin can’t take that. He would simply dissolve in the wind and cease to _be _in the face of that horror—but the worst part would be still standing there, every part of him cracking apart but still force into the same agonizing physical existence.

His hands shake on the pages. Robin has to pull them away and balance it on his lap to avoid ripping them and making Slade even angrier at him. He can’t take that, he knows he can’t.

_Look at the words_. Robin tries to refocus, use the words to get him through the time he’s supposed to spend sitting there against the cold throne. The words that aren’t Slade’s anger or Raven’s screams or the split mirror shattering his own face or _I am Robin_.

A tear drips onto the page. Robin rubs his eye furiously with a vicious hand. He whimpers softly, biting his lip viciously to stop himself from any more embarrassment. Slade can’t see it—probably. He always knows more than he lets on. All there is to embarrass is Robin, clinging to his dignity like a lifeboat in the storm.

His stubborn pride feels like all that’s left, sometimes, swirling in the hurricane that is Slade. The resolve not to give in, the resolve to save lives.

How can he save them if he’s doomed another, or hurt another, or—

_Focus on the book._

The ache isn’t soothed by the words on the pages, but it can be pushed aside, relegated to a cloistered part of Robin’s mind where its screams are muffled in his consciousness. Pages turn.

Robin flinches when Slade’s boot lands on his shoulder. It seems to shudder through him, some of the dirt on its treads shaking off on the pages of _The Art of War_. Robin brushes it off, shoulder aching.

_I hate you_, Robin thinks, glaring daggers down into his lap. _I hate you. I’m going to get you, Slade_. _Just you fucking _wait.

He hopes the man can hear him.

* * *

Anxiety pools in Robin’s stomach and starts to gnaw at him. It’s only different from hunger in that it brings the thoughts spinning in his mind.

_He’s not going to hurt your friends_, Robin swears at himself, trying to stuff the thought into his headspace and let it properly take root there. Still, best case scenario, Slade will hurt him, and Robin—

Robin just prays he won’t do what he did last night. He tries not to think about it, the way he can still feel Slade look at him as he holds out his hand and Slade wraps it up again. The pain hurts. It’s grounding.

He can feel Slade’s eye on him and it makes him want to cry, or scream, or try to fight. To punch a mirror. The only thing holding him back is a shuddering sort of fear and his mind that tells him he will hurt his friends, that Slade is so capable of hurting his friends.

Slade grabs his other hand and Robin closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see his wrist in Slade’s oversized fingers. The one he broke. The one he . . . can break again. Could do anything to.

“I’m sorry,” Robin mutters under his breath. Slade looks at him, one eyebrow raised. Robin flushes, looking down.

“What was that?” Slade asks.

“I-I’m sorry. For—damaging your property.”

The words sound sick coming out of Robin’s mouth.

“Good. You should be.”

Slade goes back to giving Robin’s arm basic medical attention—things Robin is sure he can do for himself. Slade probably doesn’t want to give him anything he could use to fight back with. Robin doesn’t react as alcohol burns over the wounds on his hand. It’s nothing next to the pain when Slade resets his broken limbs, Robin having to turn his head to the side so that Slade can’t see his pain so clearly.

Fear still makes him shiver.

* * *

It grows when they don’t take the path back to Robin’s room that Robin knows so well. His footsteps seem to shiver in Slade’s wake. Hands clench and unclench nervously. They don’t go back to the throne room, and he sighs internally with relief. His friends are safe.

He’s still so scared he’s almost sick to his stomach.

The door that Slade comes to clicks open, showing nothing but darkness. Robin’s grabbed roughly by his collar and shoved inside, left to stare at Slade’s silhouette in the doorway. It’s cold, and by the small light that comes in, he can tell it’s completely empty.

“This is your new room, since you can’t take having anything else.”

Robin looks around.

The fear bleeds out of him, replaced only with a shuddering dread that he will have to—live here? Slade’s going to make him—

Slade steps in the doorway, the door swinging shut behind him.

They’re both cast in pitch black.

The fear is back, this time a horror that pins him to the ground and sends metal spikes through his bones, freezing solid.

“No,“ is the only pathetic word that leaves Robin’s mouth, low and desperate.

“Don’t make me break more bones.”

“Please,” Robin sobs, again, and he knows more than he’s known anything in the world that it’s useless.

“Let me explain,” Slade says coolly. “I am going to fuck you as much as I like, boy. As long as you are here, you are here for _my _pleasure.” He pulls Robin over by his collar, towering. “I am going to _keep _doing it, and there is nothing you can do except spread your legs like a good little _whore _and _pray_ I’m satisfied with you. ‘No,’ isn’t a word you have a _right _to. Not here. Not with me.

“Not _ever _in my line of hearing. Do you understand?”

Robin feels sick.

He nods anyways.


	15. XV

Robin dresses in the cold, shuddering as he lets the blanket that had provided only the littlest warmth in the night slip off of his pale body. Slade stares at him with that singular eye, lazily taking in his form. Enjoying it. Robin bites his lip to stop himself from letting a pathetic noise through it.  _ Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. _

He still thinks he might be shaking as he pulls on the apprentice’s clothes as fast is he can. It provides little warmth but makes up for it in dignity, a small sigh of relief let out through his nose. Slade can’t see him.

Something drips slightly down the back of his thigh. Slade’s, still aching in him, and Robin feels his bravado melt as easily as it came. He stares up at the one-eyed man, and too late he realizes that his hands are wrapped around himself childishly, a desperate bid to protect himself.

Slade crooks a finger, and Robin is through the door.

* * *

Robin’s face is pressed into the cold floor by Slade’s rough hand on his back. Tears spill out of the edges of his eyes with every brutal thrust, rocking forward so that the ground digs into his cheekbone and the wetness pools on the ground. He’s silent, but the slap of skin on skin every time Slade slams himself into Robin’s body. The man’s grunting fills the small room, low and concentrating. Everything Slade does is utterly focused, completely calculated, every thrust tearing Robin open. He still bleeds.

All Robin can do is close his eyes tight and try to block it all out. He counts in his head sometimes, but he just ends up counting Slade’s thrusts, hissing on every number of agony. Every one feels like a spear is impaling him up through his body, echoing up through his spine, invading every part of him.

Now, he sobs low when he feels Slade speed up. He doesn’t manage to bite it back when he hears the low groan in his ear or when Slade comes inside him.

“Good boy,” Slade purrs in his ear, and then he’s gone, slipping out of Robin and leaving him in blessed lonely darkness. Robin can cry now, tears slipping down his face, seemingly endless. He wraps the filthy blanket around himself to stave off the cold, trying to ignore the heat still inside him or the pain splintering so close to it.

Or—something else? Something feels awkward, feels warm—not in the way Slade’s cum does. Robin blinks slightly, slipping a hand down. It lands on his own crotch, fingers wrapping around himself, the lack of understanding on Robin’s face not visible in the dark. He’s hard—but that doesn’t make sense. Robin’s only gotten hard thinking of—Star, or the days when he stole the magazines that Bruce never reads and brought them to his room. Robin doesn’t understand why he’s hard now, why he can feel himself under his fingers. _That’s not supposed to be there. _Robin only gets that way for Star, not for Slade, it doesn’t make sense. Robin doesn’t want this, he shuddered when Slade cracked open the door and flinched when Slade turned him over—and he waited and waited for Slade to get out of him and finish and this doesn’t make _sense_.

Robin’s not into men—he hasn’t been it doesn’t make any sense. _He doesn’t want this_.

He _doesn’t!_

Slade had—Slade had said he might enjoy it but Robin hadn’t been enjoying it. He’d hated it, every last second, and now he’s somehow . . . hard under the covers, between his legs.

Robin stares dead-eyed in the dark, blinking away more tears. It’s hard to tell what he’s crying for, this stupid thing that doesn’t make sense or the fact that he’s stuck here in this cold room, or Raven or Slade or anything else in his hellish life. Sometimes he feels like he couldn’t cry if he tried and sometimes it just drips out of him in streams, unstoppable and humiliating.

The great leader Robin, letting his team die.

Pinned to the ground while Slade hisses in his ear that he’s a _whore_.

Robin buries his face in the crook of his arm, smearing it with salty tears. It’ll probably help to wash some of the sweat off that’s been collecting there ever since the last mission who knows how long ago. If he’d just been a little bit faster, a little bit more competent, a little bit _luckier_, he could have gotten the remote—he could have won—he could have saved his friends and saved Raven.

An image of Slade’s face smeared in bright crimson, a piece of glass stuck in his good eye, lips slightly parted. It’s burned suddenly into the darkness, He’s dead, Robin knows, and he knows he’s killed him. Because Slade deserves it, because dead Slade can never hurt his friends.

He likes the picture of Slade dead where he can’t hurt any more of Robin’s friends. Where he can’t hurt Robin.

The shame follows seconds later, washing over him like a river. _Batman_—

Robin can’t think about Batman as his breath catches in his throat. He’s betraying him by even thinking of this, betraying his moral code, not fit to be a hero. Not fit to be anything.

Anything but Slade’s.

Robin pushes the thought out of his head as soon as he can and curses at it, shivering and head shaking slightly. It’s a stupid thing to think. Nobody deserves—deserves this, and Robin is good, he’s a hero, he should find a way to save his friends because he always _does_.

_I am Robin_, he wants to tell the dark room, but as ever, the words simply don’t come.

* * *

Slade likes to watch.

Robin doesn’t notice it at first—too desperately preoccupied with the books he has around him and trying to force himself to focus on them. He doesn’t like to look at Slade, or think about Slade, or know Slade is there at all, if he can help it. Sometimes he pretends that the vibrations moving up through him are from the Batcave, and he’s a little kid again, hiding from his schoolwork by getting Bruce to explain things to him.

Bruce never looked at him like this, though. He knows Slade is watching him, that single eye skewering him. Robin can feel it, cutting through the shuddering on his skin, adding to it.

Robin knows it will all be worse if he turns around to face Slade, so he doesn’t.

He squints down at the book in his hands. He’s sitting halfway in a pile of them and halfway out. The words blur in his tired mind, shivering in aching bones. Slade will ask him questions in a sharp tone of voice when he’s done, quizzing him on the contents of the book. Half the ones Slade has don’t seem to be in English—Robin catches sight of Russian, Mandarin, French, and several other ones he can’t recognize.

“What languages do you speak?” Slade had asked, flipping through the books. At Robin’s response of “Just English,” he’d snorted derisively and half-thrown a book on Japanese at Robin’s face. Now, Robin squints down at basic _kanji_, rubbing his forehead. He flinches whenever Slade moves above him, fixated on whatever it is he’s working on.

Robin doesn’t dare try to glance at it.

If he doesn’t learn this to Slade’s satisfaction, he’ll have to endure half a beating for everything he gets wrong from it. The man seems to know everything in them. He must have a photographic memory, like Batman’s—

Robin’s face screws in on itself, and he bites down to ignore it. _Don’t think about them._

His fingernails are dirty on the page, dirt caked under them. Robin tries to scrape it out, but it rarely works well, instead just getting the dust on the floor under them all over again. He _must _smell bad, can smell the sweat and blood on himself sometimes when he curls up under the blanket and stifles in the heat. How can Slade stand—

_Don’t think about it._

Robin can’t stop himself, the feelings filling his brain once again.

The filth still crawls over his skin, drips down his thighs, pollutes every part of him. Slade invades him, hands digging into him. Bruises that will never wash away, that Robin thinks he can still feel even after they fade away. He feels . . . _tainted_, somehow, like Slade touched him and suddenly there was something unsightly buzzing just over Robin’s skin, shuddering down his spine, an unworthy loathing. When his fingers rub his arms, Robin half expects them to come away sticky with cum, wiping them off as best he can on his uniform.

_You got hard_, Robin remembers, and he doesn’t even know what that’s supposed to _mean_, only that it happened and he can’t help it at all. It just makes him feel sicker, his own body’s acknowledgement of Slade’s claim on him.

Slade shifts. Robin flinches, head whipping around to look at him. Slade’s fingers tap on the rest of his chair in a soft noise. He doesn’t notice Robin, instead fixated on something on his screen that seems to be frustrating him.

Robin rubs his shirt on a cut on his collarbone, rubbing the red off on the cotton and letting it stain. Sweat drips down his chest without notice, dampening the fabric—nowhere near as bad as it had been earlier in the day, when he was forced to run laps, cradling his hands close to his chest.

It had almost felt good, in a way, if he hadn’t ached so badly. If Slade hadn’t been standing there and taking him in with his one judgmental eye.

The sweat and filth from it crawls over his skin. Robin would do anything just to have a chance to scrub Slade off of his skin, letting the blood flow down his legs and wash into the drain. He shudders in it, the whole thing dripping down his skin and fouling him, oozing from some part under him, a tainted soul.

He looks up. Slade is finished, hand no longer tapping in impatience. He’s actually idly flipping through one of the books that Robin’s reading today, a critical look on his face.

Robin wonders if Slade ever smiles in a way that doesn’t send fear racing down his spine.

Slade notices him staring. “What is it, boy?”

Robin stares down at his hands. _Shouldn’t have caught his attention. _Dirt and blood are caked under his fingernails. “I . . . “ _I have one chance at this. _“Can I please have a shower? Master?”

_I hate you_, Robin adds spitefully, but his face doesn’t change.

“Maybe.” Slade seems to be taunting him, lines on his face moving minutely. “What did you do to _deserve _it?”

Robin feels helpless like a child again, fists bunching as best they can by his side. He’s helpless against Slade’s power, without recourse. All he can do is hope Slade takes some kind of twisted pity on him.

It burns his pride.

As if he has any left. Filth aches on his skin. _Not a robin_, something deep in him mocks.

“I apologized,” Robin says. He pulls on the dignity in his being to stand as strong as he can under Slade’s glare.

“How sincere of you.” Slade’s voice drips with sarcasm.

Dirt drips down Robin’s sweaty neck. “Please—I’ll obey you, alright? I won’t . . . fight you,” he says. His hands shake slightly. _God_, why is he so weak?

“Perhaps,” Slade hums. His fingers tap. Robin stares down at dirty fingernails. A pause. “We’ll see how you do.”

Slade goes back to his work.

_Bothering him will just make it _not _happen_, Robin reminds himself.

The grease on his skin almost makes him want to cry, but at least he has something to focus on, a reason to . . . keep going.

* * *

Robin doesn’t struggle when Slade comes for him that night, when Slade comes _in _him. He just shivers in the corner until Slade presses him under his heavy form, lets his legs be spread and closes his eyes when Slade unzips his pants.

Tears dry on his eyes as he rolls over and goes to sleep. Cum dries on his thighs. The darkness is suffocating, but it’s not the light that heralds Slade’s appearance or the blinding spotlight of the training room. It’s like the darkness of Gotham City, wrapping him in stealth and silence like Batman’s cape.

* * *

Robin keeps his mouth shut the next few days. He doesn’t dare look at Slade lest the man take it as a slight or get irritated with him and hurt him again, count it against his running tally. He fights against his always present fatigue to repeat back the answers in the books to Slade, doesn’t fiddle with his collar like he hates it, the way he always does. Being here with Slade feels like limbo, or the Catholic purgatory, existing in agony while the world moves on around him.

_At least my friends_—

But they’re not safe. Not while Slade has the nanobots. Not while Slade knows their names.

Would be if Robin had been good enough.

But he wasn’t.

* * *

_Robin looks down at the eggs on his plate. They’re scrambled, which is strange, because he doesn’t like scrambled eggs, and Alfred knows it. He eats them anyways, slimy going down._

_“Please pass the salt,” Robin says. His mother passes it across the long table, and Robin thanks her. He doesn’t know why he’s eating breakfast at the dinner table. Maybe they’re about to go on patrol, which makes sense, because he can hear the bats rustling overhead. Their flapping wings makes a whirring noise, enough air to make Robin shiver at the dinner table._

_“Do you want some more eggs?” Alfred asks. Robin looks up to see the kitchen in front of him, Alfred frying eggs in an apron that says THE BUTLER KNOWS BEST._

_“I don’t like scrambled eggs,” Robin says._

_“What about poached eggs?” Alfred asks. The eggs that he puts on Robin’s plate look purple like bruises, flat on the side. Robin picks up his fork, stabbing it into the flesh. Dark purple oozes out onto the plate under the tines of it. The eggs taste like grape, warm and sticky._

_“I don’t like these,” Robin says._

_“You have to eat them,” Alfred purrs, low and dangerous. Robin looks up, Alfred standing in profile. His face is one half black and one half orange, sliced cleanly down the middle. _Slade!

_Robin pushes the eggs away, getting ready to throw the plate at Slade. Something seems to be unraveling in him. This is the manor. Slade isn’t supposed to be here, it doesn’t make sense. “Go away!”_

_Slade turns, no longer just one half of him showing. A single blue eye is set in the middle of his forehead, staring dangerously at Robin. In one hand is a knife, and in the other hand is Raven. He’s pulling her out of the frying pan, spatula set against her cheek, part of her neck dripping purple grape blood._

_Robin screams._

* * *

Robin wakes up shuddering in the dark, face buried in his hands as he remembers where he is. The blanket had fallen off of him in the night, goosebumps now chasing their way up his skin. He’s terrified, huddling in the void, for the first minute or two after he wakes up, still stuck in the haze of sleep and the dream still burned into his lids. It’s only after a few minutes have passed that he can digest the absurdity of it, push it away back into his subconscious and the freedom of forgetfulness.

The tears still come, so slowly that Robin doesn’t realize that they’re there until they’re dribbling slowly down his cheeks. He rubs furiously at them, because he needs to keep all the water he can in him. It just makes his palms damp, rubbing them furiously on the blanket pressed over his knees—that’s just as filthy, but Robin can’t find himself to care.

_Raven._

Raven when she saved his life, Raven meditating in the tower, Raven glaring at him when he opens the door to her room without knocking and yelling at everyone in the team to shut up so she can concentrate. Every little memory cuts through him like a knife, tears pulled from him like teeth, but Robin somehow can’t make them stop. He holds himself in the small room, letting the grief course through him. Nails dig into his arms, providing some small grounding. In the pitch black, it’s easy to believe he’s falling, and only the echoes of his low sobs ground him in the place that he is.

Robin falls away into the blackness. He doesn’t remember collapsing in a puddle of blankets and limbs, salty tears still running over his lips and staining his face red.

Robin gets a dozen fresh new bruises from Slade the next day for nodding off, and they bring a strange sense of déjà vu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the dream sequences is really weird but i got it in my head that dream sequences in fiction should be as weird as they are in reality. and im not deleting it because it would make the chapter too short. i refuse to edit, dammit.


	16. XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS IM SO SORRY I LITERALLY FORGOT UNTIL BLUEBERRIES REMINDED ME . . . . thank u for sticking with my terrible posting ""schedule"" i SWEAR TO GOD  
also, uh, this chapter is mean  
really mean :)
> 
> eDIT: due to some weird shenanigans, chapter 18 and chapter 16 have switched places (????). please go read chapter 18 and then come back and read in order. thank you.  
for clarity: the reading order is: 18 -> 17 -> come back to 16 -> 19 -> then as usual.

The light cuts across the darkness in a familiar path and Robin winces. Slade stands like a shadow come to life, and fear curls up in Robin’s gut.

“Get up.”

The clothes on the floor this time aren’t the loose training ones. Instead, the orange and black of Robin’s apprentice uniform hits the ground. Robin leans down to pick at it, slipping it over his form as fast as he can. Something is off. Slade isn’t dressed in his dark clothes, instead in full gear—sword and guns and all. His face isn’t visible behind the mask, but his demeanor is the same as ever.

Robin pulls the last of the forearm guards on himself, eyes still on Slade. Slowly, the man pulls the two swords from his back, offering them hilt first to Robin.

Robin knows he doesn’t have a choice. Slade brooks no argument. Hands close over the hilts, slipping them into the carriers on his back. The weight is strange as he steps forward out into the brightly lit hallway. Something is strange in the whole scenario, not as well planned out. Robin’s eyes ache with lack of sleep, and he blinks it away. If he doesn’t want Slade to be angry, he has to be as alert as possible. Slade seems preoccupied, probably with the strangeness. It’s not like him not to brief Robin on a mission—

Robin stumbles, careening into Slade with a hiss as he loses his balance. Around him, the whole complex shakes and shudders. Robin tries to flail to catch his balance. A steady hand catches him, on the back of his neck and splayed between his shoulders. It presses Robin up, Robin’s face burning slightly as he catches his feet. The hallway seems fine, no structural damage, but the explosion still rings in his ears. Is someone attacking…?

For the first time in months, something burns inside Robin’s chest: hope. He should snuff it out, pinch the wick before the candle burns down to nothing at all, but it warms every part of him in a way that makes the cold in his limbs recede just a little, makes his bruises ache a little less.

“Follow me.” Slade’s voice is harsh, his hand that closes around Robin’s shoulder and spins him around almost as much so. Robin can’t help but glance behind him, the walls that form the totality of his prison seeming so fragile suddenly, instead of the unstoppable impassible wardens of hell. He hurries along after Slade, pressing through the halls in a familiar pattern: they end up in the throne room, and for a second Robin wonders if Slade is going to sit him down and make him go back to their old habits.

It shakes again.

Slade is impenetrable, over at the computer and tapping through passwords and screens before Robin can even look at the title. Not that he’s really trying. Robin is transfixed by the room shuddering slightly on its foundations. He half hopes that the pretentious throne will come tumbling down. Maybe crushing Slade in its way, conveniently.

Slade make a small _hm _noise of thought, Robin taking a step back towards him as the wall shakes across from them. He feels as if he should be properly afraid, or care that the place looks to be collapsing, but . . .

The feeling doesn’t come, beyond a nervousness he’s used to suppressing in the violent line of work. He feels numb, as if the feelings he’s supposed to access are just beyond the tips of his fingers. It’s a strange, broken feeling, emptiness in his soul.

“Well, then,” Slade murmurs to himself, bemused. Robin turns to see him regarding the screen in front of him with a twitch in his brow. Red dots dance across a map that Robin instantly snaps into his memory as best he can. The instinct seems funny, because the place is collapsing all around them.

A hand grabs his upper arm in a vice and Robin is dragged obediently along, staring past the chalky white walls. Some of them show hairline fractures.

_I could make a break for it—_

But no.

_Raven_.

The wound bleeds in his chest, stitches torn open again.

Slade seems intent on something. Robin feels that hope that tickles his chest burn just a little bit brighter. The darkness that Slade comes for him in recedes just a little bit, shadows dancing in Robin’s mind.

_Could it be - ?_

_It couldn’t be._

_That would be ridiculous._

Another explosion rocks them. It’s closer this time, but Slade seems unbothered. His fingers dig into Robin with bruising strength, hands dancing towards his sword. Robin stares around. Slade has a plan, doesn’t he? He looks like he has a plan.

Slade stops suddenly, tugging Robin’s arm to a wince as Robin tries to move forward without him. He turns to the wall, fingers dancing over something—

A door opens, the section of the wall folding to the side to give way to a brightly lit tunnel. The wall made of stone.

Robin should’ve _known_.

Slade pulls him in and closes it behind them. This place, paradoxically, seems more stable. Slade moves at a steady, unbothered pace, and Robin wonders if it’s for his benefit or if Slade is simply so in control at every point that he’s not afraid at all. He seems to ooze surety in the situation. It makes Robin’s skin itch, like the weight of the swords on his back. He wants to throw them to the ground, but he’s not allowed. They’re his to carry now, the burden of a failure of a leader. A boy who killed through his own selfishness.

It aches.

Robin takes step after step in Slade’s path.

They come out in a passage that Robin hasn’t seen, terminals lining the walls. The remains of a steel door lay on the ground, a jagged hole in the wall. It looks like it was blown apart by some kind of rampaging monster from a horror movie, angry and growling. Behind it, dust gathers in a cloud that Robin can’t see through.

The next explosion shakes the walls, thrumming up through Robin’s body and making him slightly nauseous. His head rings as Slade pushes him forward, step after step.

Robin can hear movement up ahead. The first real contact he’s going to have with people who aren’t Slade. The concept alone sends adrenaline thrumming through his system, tingling in the tips of his fingers.

_It can’t be_, he tries to tell himself.

The dust begins to be blown away slightly, Robin and Slade approaching the . . . intruders?

_It wouldn’t be good if it were_, Robin swears with an ache that screams in his bones. He forces the though out of his mind even as the particles come together to form shadows—

Two of them, standing in the small lights with the dirt dancing through the air. A larger one and smaller, almost as tall, much slimmer.

Something jumps in Robin’s chest and lands in his throat.

Slade’s hand squeezes, once, painfully. Then he’s letting go.

“Renegade. Attack.”

The voice is loud in the room, ringing like an explosion. Slade is tugging on Robin’s leash, yanking him by the collar to do his bidding, and like a trained dog, Robin responds to his master’s commands. He bites his lip, anxiety in his chest rising to a breakneck pace as he moves forward.

The shapes in the dirt move, turning towards the noise. The bulkier one raises it’s arm, and—

The glow of green lights up the room, turning the dust into a solar storm and the skin in front of Robin into something completely alien. It comes from four places, the glowing in hands and the warrior’s eyes and Robin knows before they step out of the mist, the feeling blooming with no reason but intensity inside him. 

He takes in Cyborg and Starfire, staring at him with wide eyes, their weapons at the ready. Robin’s friends.

Right there.

Right in front of him.

_Real._

Robin chokes.

They’d seemed like phantoms only the night before, dancing behind his eyes in the darkness. Now they’re just as real as Slade is, standing before him—not quite as he remembers them.

Not quite at all, because Vic’s eyes are narrowed at him, one arm half-raised and ready to attack. It’s nothing like the grinning face he remembers. As the green light recedes from Star’s eyes, her hands powering down but not quite.

“Robin?”

It rings in the room.

That’s his name, that’s Robin’s name, twisting out of someone else’s lips—from Star’s tongue, voice unsure and beautiful and everything Robin has wanted, needed, dreamed of.

Real.

_Here_.

Something burns in his eyes, not for the first time, but for something true and real and beautiful. For the person Robin knows he loves.

“Star . . .” The exhalation is inaudible to anyone except Robin himself, a secret passed between his lips. She looks at him like she’s not sure whether he’s really there either, still defensive, not sure if Robin will attack her.

Almost afraid of him, as if he’d hurt her, as if Robin would ever hurt her or think of hurting her, as if Robin wouldn’t tear out his soul and give it away to keep her from harm. It hurts down to his bones, cutting through him like a rusted knife with barely any edge dragged furiously through his flesh.

But she should be afraid of him.

They should all. They should all be there to hurt him and defend themselves from him and leave him out because he has to hurt them, he will hurt them, because Slade is behind him with a remote in his hand and he is telling Robin to attack, _Attack, or your friends will die. Attack, and I might spare their lives. Obey me, and it will hurt less._

All of them except Raven, and she’s not here, and it comes crashing down on Robin all in that instant and he really and truly is crying, curling down his cheeks without a mask. They will be hurt. They will be hurt, and Robin, however much of a pathetic failure, however weak he is, cannot allow that. _Will _not allow that. It’s every last bit of who he is, curled in the core of his soul, not sheared away by Slade.

“Leave,” Robin orders.

He charges, boots slapping the floor in time as the white blurs. All he can see are Star and Cy, and he doesn’t want to hurt them because he  _ loves  _ them with all he is but that’s why he has to. That’s why he can’t let himself get sidetracked in the agony of worrying.

Cy’s canon powers up. The projectile shoots towards Robin—right in front of him, too close to dodge without losing momentum. On instinct, Robin’s fingers close around the hilt of one of the swords on his back. Just as he’d expected, it cuts through the energy like it was nothing. Certainly not just steel, just like Slade had said. The parts of it separate around him easily as Robin shoots forward.

Green light fills his vision. Robin is prepared to dodge but to his surprise he doesn’t have to. The starbolts are centimeters off, nowhere near being able to hurt Robin, meaning—

Meaning Star doesn’t think he’s gone, isn’t trying to hurt him, and Robin _aches_.

He still takes the next step forward, and then the next. Because he has to. Because this is his life now, sold for that of his friends. Hell and all.

Something huge and dark flairs in the corner of Robin’s eye and he has only seconds to think _Slade! _before he’s falling through the air. He flips, landing on his feet. The impact jars him as he stares around for the source of it.

A green T-Rex, its dangerous tail flickering back and forth.

Beast Boy.

He’s safe.

And Raven isn’t.

“Robin, you must—” Star tries to plead.

Robin’s fists clench, one painfully on the hilt of his sword. “You need to leave. Now.”

_Please leave._

_Please don’t leave._

“Robin—”

“You heard him,” Slade echoes, amused. Robin hates him. He hates him more than he’s ever hated anyone, even the man who killed his parents, even more than he hated Slade before.

Robin readies himself to charge again. His trained muscles tense under him, bruises forgotten. The situational assessment is good, Robin will have the ability to take them on—even if Beast Boy looks intimidating, Robin knows his weaknesses.

“We know about the nanobots, Robin,” Cyborg says.

Robin freezes.

“We neutralized them.”

Robin stares.

The swirling of Cyborg’s blaster seems to hypnotize him. The words that ring in his ears are unfamiliar because Slade is not speaking them, impossible to believe.

“Don’t listen to them. Do you really think they could?”

Slade’s voice is harsh and cruel. Robin can sense a strain in it. That can’t be hesitation, a sense of being caught off guard. Those kinds of things don’t happen to Slade.

Except.

“We did not believe that—that Raven was killed of . . . natural causes,” Star explains, stilted.

So she really is dead.

Dead and gone.

“So we took a look,” Cyborg explains. “We got them, Robin. They were in all of us. I . . . we . . . we’re sorry for doubting you.”

Star nods.

_They doubted me._

“Did you really?” Slade mocks. He’s in control, smooth and sure. Robin stares at him, the faceless mask and the orange and black that makes him shiver to the bone. That’s a voice he’s learned to trust will do what it says it well, even in Slade’s so many words. “Do you really think they could have beaten _me_, pet?”

Robin chokes.

He stares at Star and Cy with wide, terrified eyes. He tries to plead with them, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth with something he doesn’t know or understand.

It dangles right in front of him. The unthinkable. Release, freedom, his friends. All back for him, for _him_. The burning in his chest warms him, the numbness that has been his reality for so long starting to . . . recede. Warmth fills him, a _feeling _he hasn’t had for so long. Hadn’t noticed that he’d missed.

“We’ve beaten you before, Slade,” Beast Boy hisses. His voice sounds strange, more angry than Robin has known to expect from him ever before. He’s back in his small, green form, brow pulled into a hated expression and a look in his eyes that Robin doesn’t remember.

They’re all so different, subtly, as if Robin had stepped through a wardrobe into a place that was simply _wrong_, just by a few inches to the left.

“Are you going to gamble your friends’ lives again, boy?” Slade queries. The detonator, hated, is in his hand. Under his fingers. Thumb ready to sign a death warrant, perhaps for all of them this time. “Do you want to watch them _all _scream for your foolishness?”

Robin feels sick. He looks to Slade and back at his friends, cut down to three, standing there. The people he’d die for.

Slade . . .

When has Slade not known? Not been a step ahead? Ever slipped, or made a mistake, or let himself be exploited? Is this just another ploy—one to test Robin’s loyalty, one to force him so that Slade can force him to watch his friends die, again?

He can’t let that happen. Not ever.

Robin’s hand clenches around the sword in his hand, finding the tip shivering in the air. He tries to hold it steady, but it still shakes, as if it’s aching for the chance to draw blood.

“Robin.” Robin whirls to see Star, her hands lowered. There is no dangerous green in her eyes, no anger, just sadness.

“Do you trust us?” Cyborg’s voice is solid, something to cling onto. Nothing like Slade’s, which slips through Robin’s fingers and shudders through his veins. The sword shakes.

“Don’t be a fool, boy,” Slade says. Robin shudders. “Do you want to watch them _melt _right here? The nanobots—”

“Shut up!” Beast Boy snarls, feral in his throat. Robin thinks he sees the flash of fangs, flinching away from the noise. Robin’s eyes widen, fear paralyzing his veins.

“Don’t—” he catches himself murmuring. _Don’t make him angry. _Beast Boy turns on him, anger in his eyes.

“I thought you were on _our _side!”

“Beast Boy—” Cyborg interjects.

“I—I—” It’s pathetic to sit there and stutter and Robin feels it in every inch of his body. Sickness is in his gut. There is no way out, no clear and real course of action. One day, before, he would know what to do. He was able to understand it, to make his brain work right. Now everything shivers with too much light and sound, too much of everything. Robin just wants it to end, not to stand here torn apart at the seams.

“I . . .”

Does he have it in him to walk back to Slade?

“_Renegade_,” Slade hisses, and the sheer fear that’s sent tumbling through his muscles makes Robin shudder.

Star looks at him encouragingly. Beast Boy narrows his eyes. Cyborg looks like he’s daring to hope.

Robin . . . Robin might just be daring to hope, too.

Every part of him shivers. They know about the bots. That’s Slade’s plan, his only plan. The chip he has on Robin.

So why is he so scared?

_Cowardice._

Robin needs to be free. He can’t do this anymore, can’t live like this, and he doesn’t have to. Not now, not again.

Free from Slade.

“I . . . I’m on your side,” he declares. The words aren’t loud. To Robin they feel whispered and low, yet they ring throughout the room.

“You’ll pay for that.”

Robin spins on Slade, seeing the detonator for the nanobots in his hand. His finger is on the trigger.

“No—!”

The hand presses down, and the button sinks in, red and dangerous and murderous.

Robin turns to stare at his friends—

They stare back.

They keep staring.

Nothing happens.

Nothing at all.

Slade’s eye narrows viciously. The thumb comes up, presses down again.

Nothing.

“You’ve been beat,” Cyborg snaps. “We’re here for our leader.”

_Leader._

The word seems foreign, ridiculous to Robin’s ears.

“You mean _my _apprentice?” Robin can hear the raised brow. Slade’s staff extends, spun in his hand. Dangerous electricity dances at the tips, and Robin can’t help but wince. He’s felt it hit his skin many times before in training, aching on his muscles as he was downed and twitching.

“He is not _yours_,” Star hisses. She’s closer to him, suddenly, eyes blazing in a way that makes Robin relieved because it’s not focused on him, the brunt of her feral anger focused on Slade.

He seems unfazed.

_Did he plan this?_

The staff spins, crackling.

“You killed Raven,” Beast Boy says. Robin can hear the choke in his voice, hidden like someone with so much experience in the area. There’s a pang, the agony of it so raw that it makes Robin nearly stagger. “You’ll pay for that.”

_Make him pay_, Robin’s mind jeers on.

“Titans,” Cyborg says, “GO!”

Robin feels his muscles jumping into action like a long-forgotten dance. His breathing is solid, and as he clenches his fist around the sword in it and crouches to stare at Slade, he feels freer than he has in months. Chains that weighed him to the ground are slashed, falling to the ground with a clanking like birdsong. Star rises into the air, Beast Boy growing into a hulking beast. Cyborg aims his cannon.

By the time Robin looks back to Slade, he’s gone. He’s too big to disappear, and yet he does. Robin ducks to the side just in time to avoid the staff going over his head. Robin’s teeth are bared in Slade’s direction, deflecting the thing on the flat of his sword.

“You still belong to me,” Slade purrs. The smile that Robin can feel on his face makes his blood run cold. _Robin, on the ground, pressed into the cot with his ass up, Slade . . ._

The green bolt nearly blinds him but it’s welcome. Slade steps neatly out of its way. It crashes into the wall, melting the stone. Slade tries to jab at her, but Star pushes him back.

“Are you the alright?” Star asks, coming up next to him. Robin can _hear _the ache in her tone, and he aches too, hearts entwined.

Robin aches, burns, feels beaten down and broken and worthless. He remembers Slade’s boots on his shoulders, Slade pinning him to the ground, Slade telling him to be a good little whore.

And yet Star is here, right next to him, floating there and safe and she knows and she cares.

“Yeah,” Robin says. “Get him.”

Star grins at him, real this time, the circles under her eyes suddenly less pronounced. Her hands come together, fist next to fist, the green light blooming in between them. Robin feels heat against his skin and ducks out of the way, scanning for Slade. He slashes at Beast Boy, who buzzes around him in the shape of a bee.

Robin is over there in an instant, to back Gar up. Slade dances out of the way of Star’s double starbolt on too-light feet, the back of his head missing the burning light by inches that Robin knows are carefully calculated. The bolt burns a steaming valley in the wall behind

Robin raises his sword, no time to pull out the other one. Slade moves easy, familiar, dangerous.

_Maybe I should have left him to Star and Beast Boy. _Robin doesn’t know where Cy is and he can’t turn to check, every ounce of his focused pulsing towards Slade. They exchange fast, loud blows before Robin flips away, recalculating.

Beast Boy starts to grow but before he can finish the end of Slade’s staff gets him in the half-there gut. Beast Boy falls to the ground spasming, reverting in twitches back to his original form.

Robin feels sick.

_Is that what Raven looked like?_

Slade’s staff moves to come down again. Robin jolts forward, pulling all he is with him. The sword slashes at Slade’s side as Robin skids past, whirling to aim another blow. It’s caught on the back half of Slade’s staff before Slade turns to face him.

“Desperate for another _punishment_?”

“You don’t have power over me now, Slade,” Robin says, as evenly as he can. He grips the sword tighter, slashing at Slade with all he’s worth. He’s fighting back, really fighting back. Star whirls above him, dodging in and out of Slade’s range in sync. Beast Boy scuttles around his feet.

For the first time in so, so long, Robin feels hope. It fills him like a drug, thrumming in his veins and mixing into a cocktail with the adrenaline there.

Robin slashes, Star ducking down to force Slade to move back and deflect. Beast Boy charges, Slade moving out of the way and letting Robin attack against as Beast Boy presses in. He’s looking cornered, Robin on one side and refusing to give ground while Beast Boy advances. The staff is occupied, Star diving down from above—

Beast Boy charges. Robin slashes. Slade’s staff comes against both of them, slamming in to block them with shaking force. Star takes advantage. There’s no way Slade can take all three of them charging at once, cornered as he is.

One hand lets go of the staff as Star comes down, gloved. Robin pushes harder but makes no progress, Beat Boy only marginally luckier. He’s still open. Star’s hand starts to glow as the bolt sweeps towards Slade.

It’s too late to dodge, and Slade doesn’t. Instead, his hand reaches up, seemingly impossibly far, and grabs Star’s ankle. She yells, the bolt burning up and through the ceiling above them in a trail of bright green. Slade yanks. Star crashes to the ground with a thud. Robin gasps, distracted. “Star!”

Beat Boy pushes harder. Slade pushes against Robin, pushing him back. Robin grimaces, bracing against the sword. Star can’t be—no. No, she’s not. That would be impossible; Slade didn’t even hurt her that much. She’s just stunned.

Robin flips back, Beast Boy retreating to bulge into a vicious rhino. The horn gleams in the light, vicious and ready to impale. Angry like Beast Boy. He charges.

Slade pulls something from his suit as Robin rushes to meet him. Robin tries to stab at it but Slade pulls it out of the way. It looks like the trigger, and Robin somehow feels relief. The nanobots are out of his friends. There is no danger, not like there was.

Did Robin even _have _to obey him that last few times?

It shudders, cold in his gut.

The rhino’s feet pound the ground, shaking dust down around them and coating Robin’s hair in a fine white powder. It spills on his hands, making even Star on the ground look dead and ghostly. Slade doesn’t seem fazed, standing in front of him like he’s ready to die or afraid of nothing at all. Robin doesn’t think Slade is afraid of anything.

He moves at the last second.

Slade’s staff slams into Beast Boy’s head before Robin has a chance to do anything about it or Beast Boy has a chance to move. Robin tries to move forward but can’t, feeling his muscle refuse to respond. The electricity crackles and Beast Boy twitches between human form and animal, hurtling towards Robin. Robin wants to bend his knees but he can’t, paralyzed with the whole of the situation. Instincts don’t help him now; Slade must have forced him so much out of practice . . .

Beast Boy’s face comes closer, in seemingly slow motion.

“Rob! Move!” Cyborg is yelling.

Robin . . . can’t. He means to, he’s trying, but it’s not _working_ -

Something shines in the light, in front of him.

Beast Boy spins closer, forming human—

He jolts to a stop in front of Robin.

Robin blinks. Something spatters his face, Beast Boy gaping at him. He’s not getting up, and Robin can’t see what’s stopped him.

“ . . . Gar?”

Beast Boy coughs. Crimson trickles out of the side of his mouth. Robin blinks at him. Fear blooms in his chest. Slade had hurt him—the electricity had messed with his form, probably, Robin has to get him help. Robin starts to move his hand only to figure out that he can’t. He looks down at it. His fist is in a deathgrip of one of his swords. It glints in the light. Robin’s brow furrows.

His eyes follow the blade, trailing out into space—

Through Gar’s chest.

Blood leaks around it, shockingly red against the green, like some sort of parody of a Christmas celebration.

“Beast Boy! Beast Boy!” Cyborg is yelling, running in heavy footsteps. “Robin! What did you _do_?”

The horror in his voice leaks into Robin’s veins as he stares, cold down to the core, at the sight in front of him. Beast Boy is gasping slightly, trying to say something through bloodied lips and rasping breath and all Robin can do is _stare _with wide eyes. His brain refuses to process, the image hanging there in his sight unimagined. It’s burned into his retinas as Beast Boy twitches a little, air working through his body and barely hitting his vocal cords.

Something is behind Robin. He can feel it but the horror in front of him paralyzes him, unable to comprehend.

“Good boy,” Slade purrs in his ear.

Something pricks Robin’s neck.

His vision goes black.


	17. Chapter 17

The water is freezing but Robin doesn’t care. He grabs for the small bar of soap feverishly, scratching the hair off of it with a ragged nail. Dirt spills down his body and circles the small drain, his hair beginning to hang more loosely around his face. Robin starts with his feet, getting all the soap he can. The dirt comes out from between his toes with blood and sweat and washes away. He runs the soap over every part of him, meticulously sure that he gets behind his ears—under his arms, on his back. Robin shivers with every pass of it, the  _ need  _ buried in his gut burning on his skin to scrub off the filth and cleanse his skin totally of anything that would taint it.

Robin shoves caustic fingers in his mouth with restrained desperation. The soap tastes disgusting, and it burns, and it aches as he swallows it down but it’s not the dirt on his tongue or the salty taste of semen dripping down his throat. He spits, gagging on it. His tongue burns with the rest of him, indistinguishable with the horror scrawled across it. The soap burns on Robin’s bruised knees, the small cuts on his hands, courses over the ridges of his back where the whip carved itself into his skin. When he rubs it on his face with abandon, it gets in his eyes, burning as Robin tries to rub it away with equally soapy hands. The lather is thick on his skin. Robin even rubs it into his hair, pulling it through the strands until he can feel the telltale lack of grease. He shivers as he feels the dirt in it pour down his back.

He’s glad Slade can’t hear him in here, sobbing slightly. Robin digs fingers into his ass, prying closer. The soap stings in his hole and he knows it’s going to hurt and it’s probably bad for him but he can’t have it, can’t have himself filled with Slade and ruined with him and unwashed from his touch. Slick drips out with Robin’s fingers and he watches it carried away by the cold rain with a small shiver.

The soap pools in dirty bubbles at his feet, the filth carried away down the drain. Robin shudders. His hands go to his shoulders, rubbing. He pries the soap off of himself, his fingers scratching desperate, red lines down his shoulders and thighs. They twine with the bruises of Slade’s handprints, stubborn no matter how much Robin presses the bar of soap against them. He practically pounds the soap against them, desperate to remove the marks of the man he hates so much—and yet there they are, still engraved in him. Robin hisses. His hair hangs wet around him, nothing in it but water that drips before his nose.

Water is done running off of him, all the soap lost. It should have taken the dirt with it—it _did _take the dirt with it, all the signs of Robin’s tainted skin twisted away from him but the dirt still _lingers_, because Robin can feel it, caking his fingers and under his chin and slick in his mouth. Robins breath catches desperately, pressing back tears.

_No. You’re clean—that doesn’t—this doesn’t make sense. Focus, focus . . ._

The tears burn behind his eyes. Everything is _wrong_, broken, disturbed. He can’t live with the filth on him like he can’t live with a nail through his foot. Desperately, Robin rubs the soap on every part of himself he can reach. He presses it in as hard as he can, leaving muscles stinging behind him as the thing courses across his skin. Taking the dirt with it. Taking Slade with it, taking everything wrong with it and letting it be burned away with the rest of the intolerables.

It burns through his mouth, deep inside him, in every part of him—washed off again by the icy water.

The soap is gone.

Not the thing that ruins him.

Robin blinks down, every part of him wracked with tremors before he even notices his shaking hand. It scrapes down his arm, the white skin under the nails washing away again. The red under his skin makes a pleasing line and Robin is scratching down it again, making it redder, the burning soothed by the freezing water. He scratches feverishly at it, staring at the red that grows as the detritus falls away.

It still burns.

It’s still _filthy_.

Robin stares at it blankly, the water still pouring over the aching skin, red but not _right_. Not healed. Still touched, ruined.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying—again, for the second, the tenth, the thousandth time. Like he hasn’t since he was a child, biting his lip to force back the agony of it.

Robin rubs again at his hands with the soap, washing away still filthy. The bitter taste of it burns his throat but he can still feel Slade forcing his way into it with all the subtlety of a knife biting into skin. The tears well in his eyes, pour down his skin with the rain. Robin doesn’t have a chance against the feelings in his chest, hard as diamond and overtaking him like an ocean current meant to drown. His arms wrap around his shoulders, cradling himself the way he remembers Star used to hug him. Robin leans over, the tense agony of every part of the past months, the humiliation and degradation and the worthlessness Slade pushes into him with ever evening he digs into his hips and _fucks_. His friends, gone. Raven, dead.

Everything, lost.

Is Robin even still here?

_Yes_, he whispers, but it’s empty as Robin curls over and shakes with sob after sob. He cries under the cold water, naked and pale and disgusting in a way he can’t explain but goes down to his _bones_, grown into their very marrow. Something in him spasms, Robin gasping for air. He gags, something in his throat, just beyond it—Robin leans over the drain, shuddering. Something sticky and pale drips from his mouth. It’s bitter with acid but he _knows _what it is, in his mouth and slicking his tongue again. Cum smears his chin, washed away in seconds as it’s swept down the drain.

Robin covers his face with his hands and cries like he hasn’t since he was a child and his parents lay as corpses before his eyes.

It seems like forever into the shivering, salty mess that Robin is that he sees the shadow looming over him. It’s cast over the soap and almost seems to make the air colder.

_Slade_.

Robin doesn’t have the strength to look up, or to care. Who knows what Slade is going to do to him? Robin can’t stop it. Like he hasn’t been able to stop anything else. Instead he just stares down at the swirling water, swept away like Robin wishes he could be. The crying works him raw, aches in his muscles, and yet he can’t stop. Slade simply stands there, watching enigmatically as Robin chokes on his own agony there on the cold floor.

Raven is gone. The tower is gone, as far as Robin is concerned. His room there, with _his _things, with his friends and with Bruce who Robin has let down so many times.

Bruce who hasn’t come for him. Who’s left him with Slade, to be raped over and over and _over _until it blurs into too many nights of endless pain and violation.

The tears don’t stop, seem to go on forever in Slade’s shadow. Robin stares down at his hands, still bearing the scars of his foolish attempt to get the trigger away from Slade. If he had been _able _to, he would be back with his friends, all alive and safe and still whole. Still with the nameless things that Slade had stolen from him, the emptiness in his soul that aches for something to fill it.

If he hadn’t been so stupid as to try, Raven would still be here, not a life cut so short at Robin’s horrific behest. In the place that should have been Robin, writhing on the floor under Slade’s boot until his eyes go blank in death. A mercy he didn’t get, to die instead of his friends. Something Slade wouldn’t let him have

A hand touches the back of his neck and Robin is pulled limply to his feet. His limbs are thinner than they used to be, almost skeletal in the light. The faucet turns off with a snap and the water stops bearing down on him.

“Dry off,” Slade orders. A towel is shoved in Robin’s face, falling onto blank fingers. He pulls it around himself, slowly rubbing his body down of the cold water. Robin doesn’t realize he’s shivering until he sees his shaking fingers try to hold it steady. He’s barely damp when Slade shoves his clothes in his face. Robin doesn’t see the look on his face and doesn’t try. Let Slade hurt him, or hit him, or even rape him again. It’s all blurred into a hopeless miasma of agony, meaningless and horrible. Everything aches.

Slade doesn’t hit him, or rape him again. Instead, he pulls Robin by the shoulder, pushing his clothes at him. Robin doesn’t bother to hide his nudity; what would be the point?

He thinks he can feel Slade’s eye taking him in. It skins him alive, tearing him down to muscle and bone and fat.

When Slade opens the door to the small room he keeps Robin in, hand resting lightly on the back of his neck, Robin doesn’t protest. He all but runs to the other side, to where his cot sits—somewhere far, far away from Slade. Robin pulls the blanket around himself, shivering in the cold. It’s filthy, like Slade, like the whole place, like the rest of Robin’s body.

The light leaves, mercifully. Robin is alone in the darkness. It was a terrifying thought when he was a child, but now . . . now, it’s a comforting sort of darkness. The kind that he knows Slade doesn’t inhabit, and won’t until morning.

Robin drops off on the filthy blanket into uneasy dreams and desperate unconsciousness.

* * *

“Attack,” Slade orders. Robin follows it with only a few seconds’ hesitation, letting his legs propel him forward to jab and slash at Slade’s form. The man moves back, Robin missing him by screaming inches. The knives are awkward in his hands, unfamiliar and unusual. Robin has some training with weapons, but with his _bo_ staff, not with sharp things in his hands meant to rend and tear.

Adrenaline floods his system as he lashes back at Slade’s form, the hated face and form that makes his hands shake with rage. This feels _good_, better than ever, letting his anger lead his strikes to make Slade _pay_. The idea of watching him gush blood, even a little, makes Robin want nothing more than to see it. Robin’s teeth grit further at every clumsy missed strike, ducking swiftly out of the way before Slade can take advantage. Everything seems to pinpoint into those two flashing blades, the dark clad body swirling in front of him so dangerously. He feels his heartbeat steady, still thumping hard. It feels good to have something in his hands to fight with, to _defend _with.

Robin ducks around Slade’s form, skidding as he aims his blades at Slade’s hamstrings. Slade jumps, his huge form flipping in the air as if he weighed nothing more than air. Robin has to roll aside before getting up to avoid a vicious kick that would’ve broken several ribs. He narrows his eyes at his opponent, the man still circling. Waiting for Robin’s attack, like a shark in the water.

Robin runs at him, a yell tensing in his chest. It pours from his lips as he moves forward, anger and fury and pent up things he doesn’t understand laser-focused on the pale eye in his vision. He feints a jab at Slade’s thigh before jumping up to kick at his head. Slade ducks. Robin manages to catch his balance on the man’s shoulderblades, flipping away behind him. He spins; Slade is coming for him, boot aimed at his shoulder. Robin pulls himself out of the way, body going lengthwise. The knife stabs at Slade’s thigh but doesn’t get there in time before he reorients. Robin goes spinning from a vicious boot to the face, barely managing to keep his balance as he flails with the dual swords.

Slade stalks forwards. Toying with him. Robin’s face twists, aches burning and ignored. The knife flashes at Slade’s wrist and shoulder. As expected, Slade steps easily to the side, into Robin’s other blade. It points to Slade’s shoulder. Slade’s hand clamps around the wrist that holds the blade. He yanks, Robin sent skidding across the floor and hissing under his breath. Slade’s fists go up, one meaning to slam into Robin’s cheek. Robin ducks. The momentum ruffles his hair. The second one comes to finish him; Robin narrows his eyes. Slade’s leaning down, giving Robin a hair’s width of space—

He slashes. Stars explode behind his eyes as Robin goes spinning off to the side. He tastes blood, feels it dripping down his chin. Robin stares at Slade. Slade doesn’t seem interested in attack, one hand pressed against his neck. Slowly, Slade pulls it away: blood dribbles through his fingers, a drop blooming on the floor.

Robin pants, energy thrumming through him. He notices his hand is shaking slightly as it holds the weapon. An almost imperceptible line of crimson taints its edge. Vicious pleasure courses in his veins as he wipes the blood off his mouth with one sloppy hand.

“Why, my boy,” Slade purrs, “I believe that was a killing blow.” He’s a panther, moving towards Robin.

Robin freezes.

The knives shudder in his fingers.

He takes a second look at Slade, at the paper-thin line that crosses the side of his neck: slim, barely bleeding.

Across the jugular.

If Robin had a little more force behind his arm, or a little more reach, or Slade had moved away just a millisecond earlier—

Slade’s lifeblood would be pooling on the floor this instant.

The thought fills Robin with a sudden jolt of pleasure, down to his gut. Slight nausea comes after. His knuckles whiten on the hands of his blades.

“You’re learning well, apprentice.” Slade is nearer now, eye taking Robin in like he’s a particularly fine piece of cheese.

Robin takes a breath. He forces his fingers to unlock. The knives fall to the floor with a distant clinking noise. The fists close behind them.

“None of that. Pick them up.”

Robin shudders.

_I almost killed him._

But he couldn’t have; Slade would never have let him. Never would’ve given him the weapons if there was even the smallest chance—

But Robin had _meant _to.

He had _wanted _to, in that singular moment when he’d slashed at Slade’s jugular, he didn’t care if the knife went through and left Slade for dead.

_A killer._

_I’m not a killer._

Robin isn’t; he hasn’t, he wouldn’t, he’d _never_.

The anger still shakes his fingers and shudders in his chest. He’d become too complacent with the weapons in his hands, wanted so badly, needed to . . .

“Can you hear me, boy?”

Robin’s eyes snap back up to Slade. “Yes. Master.”

He stares down at the knives on the ground, making him shudder in his skin. Hands shake as he reaches out to pick them up again. Instruments of death, red with blood that could have been fatal.

_Would it be so bad if he were dead?_

Robin can’t think of anyone more deserving.

But that would let him win.

Scrape away the last claim to heroism that Robin has left, nestled in his soul and held onto for dear life. It’s what Batman would want, what Robin wants. What he thinks he wants.

It’s not about what Slade deserves, it’s about who Robin _is_, down to the core of him. Not a killer, no matter how badly Slade wants to make him into one. Killing would be losing.

Robin _hates _to lose.

He picks up the knives, balanced between his fingers. The weight now feels unwanted and dirty. Just more filth to add onto his skin. Robin tries to wipe the blood off on the floor, only half successfully. He waves the sword through the air slightly, hoping to have it fly off, but it’s already crystallizing on the blade with Robin’s guilt.

This time, Slade is the one who attacks, raining merciless blows onto Robin when they get through his defenses, pushing his apprentice back towards the wall. Robin doesn’t try to attack—too focused on fending off the blows. His mind seems fuzzy, reflexes slow. Slade lands a blow on Robin’s ribs, then another on his face. Robin is thrown against the wall, gasping and choking from a blow to the diaphragm. He falls to his knees, gasping breaths filling with the scent of dirt on the training room floor.

Slade’s hands fist in his hair, nails digging rudely into Robin’s scalp. “Are you _sure _you don’t want to kill me?”

The line on his throat is pale, barely bleeding. It seems burned into Robin’s eyes. Robin grits his teeth, aiming the hilt of one of the knives at the side of Slade’s head. Slade is gone before he can follow up, Robin lurching to his feet, getting ready once again to defend himself.

If Robin could kill Slade, maybe he could escape.

Go back to his friends.

But they’re better people than to want a murderer back on their team.

* * *

Robin lays in the darkness, as familiar as it ever was, as cold as it’s always been. The hard ground digs into his back and shoulders, hard against his head. He’s always exhausted enough that it doesn’t truly matter. His brain shuts down and pulls him into the abyss soon enough, even if he wakes up with screaming pain in his muscles.

It’s nothing worse than the ache in his ass where Slade fucks him, never given time to heal before there’s more blood trickling down his thighs. It stains the blanket beneath Robin, unseen except for when Slade’s entrance casts light on it—otherwise ignored, for Robin’s sanity.

Sometimes he suspects that if he could feel it all, the sheer horror of it, he would be already broken. Other days, Robin thinks that he shouldn’t even be here, because if the world made sense, he would be dead. It should be impossible for any living person to feel the agony that festers in him, the grief and the pain and the emptiness, but he’s here anyways. Here despite sanity or reason.

If Robin could get even the smallest edge on Slade, he might have a chance. If Slade didn’t have his friends, Robin could do whatever he liked. Fight back with every inch of his being. Instead, he’s trapped under Slade’s heel, slowly and inevitably crushed like an unwanted spider.

Robin tries not to think about fighting back. It’s dangerous thoughts, things that could put his friends in danger. And yet his thoughts always drift. It keeps him sane, maybe, to imagine hitting Slade back in his face every time Slade demeans him. To fantasize about even asserting that Slade can’t touch him. Can’t use him. Can’t force him to do anything at all he doesn’t want.

Slade, bleeding out on the floor—one of Robin’s swords in his guts, the man twitching around it like an enormous ragdoll. Pale eye rolled back, blood staining his goatee, going limp. No longer able to hurt or touch or move. Robin, running, finding his way out of this place. Going back to his friends.

Maybe they wouldn’t take him back.

It would still be better than _this_.

Robin wants it more than he’s wanted anything before.

Strangling Slade with the bit of bandage he hid under his pillow in the other room, clinging with every part of him to his back. Slade spasming on the floor, Robin bracing against his back, pulling on his jugular. The eye slowly closing, the body going limp. Robin tying the thing as tight as he can, finishing him off.

He can’t stop the perverse pleasure the image brings him. Hacking the computer system, finding Slade’s password. Burning the place to the ground.

Curling up under his blanket in the Titans Tower, falling asleep to the soft whirring of the systems, or going back to his old room in Wayne Manor, still decorated like that of a child.

_What would Bruce think of you wanting to kill Slade?_

_Well, Bruce isn’t here, is he? _Robin spitefully thinks. _He didn’t come for me._

He drifts off to sleep to the sound of flames.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THIS IS LATE AGAIN this time i do have an excuse and it's my long shift ://  
also, i've gotten a few comments asking how this is going to end. i am unable to promise a happy ending, and that's about it, because i want to keep it ambiguous :3

The rigorous workouts begin again when the bandages on Robin’s hands begin to really come off, winding their way to the floor in broken strings. He’s reminded of the bandage pieces he has under his pillow in the room he used to have, useless as they were the night he tore them off. Robin doesn’t remember being particularly lucid then, but then again, he’s not particularly lucid now.

All he knows is that he’s angry, and he’s afraid.

The smell of sweat hangs on him and the clothes he wears, permeating the training room. He doesn’t know how Slade can stand it. Maybe the man’s sense of smell is just as broken as his left eye.

Either way, Robin ignores it as he crouches, spinning himself into a jumpkick. This one is faster than he’s ever done before—if it was any slower, Slade would catch him and throw him to the floor. It slams into Slade’s chest, pushing him a few steps back. Vicious pleasure at the view shoots through Robin’s veins.

Robin pulls at that instinct, trying to cut through the gray and the fear that his life has become. It feels like something real. Something he can exploit. It’s something that helps him feel a little bit more alive, like falling through the air in the wake of his own momentum. Slade recovers faster than Robin does. Robin barely blocks the blow, hissing as shockwaves are sent up his newly healed arms.

The kick sends him skidding across the floor, shoulders burning through the dirty fabric. Robin barely manages to roll away from another kick, and now he’s on the defensive, struggling just to stop himself from getting another cruel collection of bruises from today’s training.

He’s cut off from his retreats when Slade halts, a hand up to signal a pause in the session—or a stop, if Robin’s lucky. Robin curls in on himself, panting, sweat dripping down his face and down his torso. He tries halfheartedly to wipe at it with his shirt, eyes still fixed on Slade.

“We’re going to try something new,” Slade announces, without elaboration. Robin feels his heart begin to pound its pace harder in his chest, hands fisting in his clothing. Slade doesn’t move towards him, instead retreating towards the wall. Robin doesn’t realize he’s tense until a breath hisses out through his lungs, the anxiety an unwelcome push back into reality.

Slade taps at the wall, Robin too far away to get a good look at the password in the few seconds his fingers blur. Then the compartment is opening, lights flashing off of the weapons inside: swords, knives, everything in between. Slade’s hands come away with two vicious looking bastards, hands curling easily around the expensive leather hilts. Robin narrows his eyes as the man approaches.

He half expects Slade to stab him, but his body doesn’t telegraph the movements he usually does before punishment—or sadism, or anything of the sort. Instead, the swords flip in Slade’s hands, offered to Robin by the hilt: the same ones he’d been given on previous missions, but never used.

Robin stares. “I don’t use knives.”

“Yes,” Slade says pointedly, “you _do_.” His eye narrows. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to try and kill me. Well, here’s your chance.” Slade’s mouth quirks, as if the very idea is funny.

Robin’s fists bunch. The guilt boils in him, familiar and hot. The knives glint in the light, promising blood and pain. Meant for killing and maiming.

_I’m not a killer_.

Robin’s hands slowly reach out. It’s not as if he has a choice, fingers clasping around the leather, weighing them in his hands. The things seem balanced well enough, almost as long as his forearms. He’s almost surprised that Slade is giving him these, but Slade must believe that Robin really stands no chance of hurting him.

How can he, when Slade’s finger hovers over the trigger at all times?

Slade takes two steps back, the singular eye taking in all of Robin’s movements. Robin is left with only himself and the weapons meant for nothing but killing.

* * *

The things are heavy in his hands as he trains.

Robin doesn’t have a choice to pick them up and use them, but he does have a choice where he points them. He knows how to take down enemies nonlethally, and every strike he lands has no chance of really killing Slade.

Not that it wouldn’t hurt, of course. Robin sometimes fantasizes about taking him down during training and running out of the compound. Finding his friends.

Every strike he lands is a victory, but he can’t manage to properly catch him, to do any damage. Slade dodges out of what would have been a choking jab to the neck. It hits his shoulder instead, ineffectual, Robin’s fingers smarting as he moves back. Breath rattles in his lungs. Robin can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since the session started, sweat dripping down his neck.

Air breezes in front of his face as he jumps back, the tread of Slade’s boot inches from his nose. He ducks the next blow, jabbing at Slade’s legs, moving swiftly to the man’s blind side. It never seems to do any good, but Robin is willing to take any advantage he can get, no matter how improbable.

“Bad form.” A blow hits his ankles with barely any warning, Robin falling forward and trying to catch himself on his arms. “Surely I taught you better.”

Robin’s first instinct is to jump to his feet but he can feel Slade looming above him, his eyes boring into him with icy surety. This is one of Slade’s games. Another humiliation for Robin to endures.

“I’m sorry, master,” Robin says dutifully. Something slams into him, leaving him gasping for breath. He recoils to the floor, blinking away painful stars. It’s only seconds later he realizes it was Slade’s boot, which really had collided with his face this time. Blood spills from his lips, familiar. Robin has to flick his tongue across his teeth to make sure they’re all intact. One or two are probably loose.

“I’m sorry,” Robin whispers.

“Your performance the past few days has been less than disappointing. My fault for expecting something better of you, hm?”

Robin’s hands fist on the floor as he stares at the white knuckles.

“I’m not used to using—”

Fingers bruise on his chin as Slade crouches. “None of that,” he snaps. “We both know you’re not trying.”

Robin’s teeth grit. “I’m not going to—I’m not a killer.”

“Really?” Slade’s cruel face is in Robin’s. The mint on his breath makes Robin dizzy and slightly sick. “Do you need _incentive_?”

“I _hate _you,” Robin hisses. “You can’t imagine how much I hate you. I wish you were dead.” He chokes. “But I’m not a killer.”

“Not yet,” Slade murmurs, half to himself. He tilts Robin’s head up. Something that makes Robin shake deep inside glints in his eye. “We’re done training today, I think.”

Robin is still. It should make him happy. But Slade is still angry, which means that the fear shuddering through him has reason.

“But _first_, I’d like an apology.”

“I said I was sorry,” Robin says, almost petulant.

“Something a little more substantial.” Slade straightens, dropping Robin’s chin carelessly. “For all my _trouble_.”

Danger shudders in the back corners of Robin’s mind. “Master—”

Fingers dig into Robin’s shoulder, ordering but not pulling. “Closer, boy.”

Robin shuffles forward on his knees, hands on the dirty floor. He comes to a stop where his knees almost meets the vicious tips of Slade’s boots. Slade stands in stark perspective, intimidating. His hand guides Robin’s head up, pulling him to his risen knees. Robin is close to him, almost close enough to brush the thickly muscled thighs. His head comes up Slade’s—

To his—

_Oh, god._

Bitter acid rises in the back of Robin’s throat. He gags on it. _Oh, please no, he can’t—it’s not—_

Slade’s hand almost brushes Robin’s nose when the fingers move to his fly.

Robin suddenly can’t breathe, jerking his head back on instinct. Fingers tighten suddenly, cruelly, in his hair, keeping him in place.

The zipper slides slowly, inevitably down.

“What’s the matter, never sucked a cock before?”

Robin’s head is shaking, dragging Slade’s fingers painfully into his scalp. _No, no, no, nonono_—

He can barely hear himself stuttering helplessly. “No—Master—please—Slade—not this, I—I promise I’ll try I promise—”

The black of Slade’s briefs is beneath his pants, the slit going down them. Slade palms himself, fingers teasing the bulge idly as he digs into Robin.

“_Please_,” Robin begs desperately. “N-not—not that, please just—do it the—the other way—”

Something trickles down his face. Tears, fearful tears. Broken tears.

Slade’s hand legs go of Robin’s hair, tracing down his wet cheek. Robin looks up at him, sickness blooming in him.

It seems too awful, too impossible to endure to happen, to _exist_, but Slade has no limits. Slade is capable of anything at all and Robin is _here _in this place and this is his _life_.

_This is going to happen_.

He chokes on a helpless sob, shoulders shaking. He feels pathetic on his knees, everything drowned out by the shuddering fear that overtakes him. Slade’s finger brushes over his cheek, rough. The thumb dips into Robin’s mouth. It tastes of sweat and leather, prying his mouth apart and pushing down on his tongue. Robin’s next sob is muffled, his hands fisting on his knees.

_Please_, he begs, and he doesn’t know who he’s begging. Nobody at all, because nobody can hear him.

Nobody can save him.

Slade’s other hand works himself to fullness. The bulge is visible through the fabric. Robin can _smell _it with every desperate breath he takes. The only thing that keeps him from throwing up then and there is Slade’s fingers prying his mouth open. Every part of Robin shakes.

_Think of Kori, think of your friends, think of—_

The reasons he’s so filthy, so demeaned, so worthless. They seem so far away, almost meaningless.

Slade slips his cock free.

It’s ugly, red and veined and _too close too close tooclose_, cradled in Slade’s fingers as he moves it forward. It smells of him, sweat and something muskier, overpowering. The thing that dances in front of his face is so big he can’t imagine how it’ll fit in his mouth.

All at once Robin loses his nerve, hands pressing desperately against Slade’s thighs to get away, away from him, away from all of this. He’s panting, head shaking. Robin’s eyes close as tears drip out of them and light dances behind them, desperately pushing and shuddering along the floor. Slade’s hand clamps down on his tongue and his chin, pressing in. Something incoherent leaves Robin’s mouth, high pitched and desperate.

_No, no, no, oh god please—_

He can taste the very tip of Slade’s cock against the pad of his tongue. It feels like nothing but skin, something oversized and awkward passing his lips. A tang is swallowed down with saliva, strange and slick.

Bile aches in the back of his throat. Robin’s hands pound against Slade’s thighs, useless. He shuts his eyes tighter, sobbing. He’s muffled by Slade’s cock.

Fingers dig into Robin’s hair. He’s pulled forward, off balance and taking Slade further into his mouth. He feels his lips stretch along the length, moving into him. It’s against the top of his mouth and _unnatural _and every single thing is awful about it.

_This shouldn’t be happening. He’s—_

“I think I like you better this way,” Slade muses. Robin tries to shut him out, to shut everything out. Only the pain in his knees is really here, aching and burning.

Slade snaps his hips and Robin’s eyes shoot open with horrible surprise, a muffled cry in his throat. Slade hits the back of his throat, every part of Robin closing around him and trying to _expel _him. The top and bottom of his mouth clench together as Robin chokes. His fists turn to desperate claws against Slade’s thighs. He can see himself pulled closer to Slade’s crotch, the whole of it looming huge in front of his eyes. Coarse white hair pushes through Slade’s briefs as he pulls more of himself out, the thing that just last night was tearing Robin open from the _other _end.

The thing in Robin’s mouth thrusts once, twice more, making him shudder with the sheer _horror _of it, because it’s Slade in his _mouth _as careless for Robin’s comfort as ever. Filth runs down his spine as tears spill down his face. He has to suck in breaths when Slade pulls back to thrust again. His eyes roll back to look so far up at Slade, and there he is, looking right back down at him and the heat just under Robin’s skin scalds him.

“That’s right,” Slade murmurs. “You look just like that—_ah_—”

He thrusts again with a sick, slick sound. Saliva drips down Robin’s chin, dripping on the floor, taking Slade into him too easily. Robin shuts his eyes and then lets out a muffled _scream _as Slade’s thrust hits the back of his throat and _keeps going_, stretching his throat as it slides down into him. It’s a sensation of something where it shouldn’t be, where it doesn’t make any sense at all, but it’s still there _in _him as it slides with a horrid sensation that creeps along every inch of Robin’s skin. He feels his lips hit Slade’s body, the coarse hair tickling him as he tries helplessly to suck in enough air with Slade’s balls flush with his chin. Robin can’t breathe, breath trapped in him by Slade.

He’s held there for endless, agonizing moments as his lungs flare. Air pushes to get out, swelling with nowhere to go. Robin lets out asphyxiated sobs, the light show behind his eyes nothing compared to the agony—

the _shame_—

that makes every part of him scream.

Slade pulls back some inches and Robin sucks in half a desperate breath before Slade shoves himself back down Robin’s throat. It burns with the force and tears drip off Robin’s chin, face close to Slade’s heat, full to the brim of him. Slade’s hands dig into Robin’s hair with vicious force, pulling him further as Slade thrusts in. Saliva drips to the floor, debauched. The only sounds are Robin’s muffled, unstoppable keens and the aching sound of slapping, wet flesh.

Slade pulls back only to pound in with crueler force, Robin dragged to meet him, balls against his chin. Fists dig into the fabric on Slade’s thighs, saliva smearing on the hair on Slade’s crotch as Robin closes his eyes tighter. He can’t even shake his head from side to side because Slade’s cock digs even deeper into him, even more _wrong_. Slade thrusts in a rough rhythm, seemingly trying to see how deep he can force himself down Robin’s esophagus. Robin’s dragged along for the ride, Slade fucking his face like it’s a toy.

Robin can’t breathe.

He tries to scream, but all he can hear is Slade’s groan of pleasure from above him. Everything he is slowly blurs into Slade forcing himself further down, clenching around him as he slips in and out. Something tangs on his tongue, salty and musky and _Slade _and he realizes what it was. His throat constricts in a gag as he tries to push out the _thing _inside of him. It’s useless.

Through the blur of pain Robin realizes that Slade is going to—when he’s finished, as if Robin on his knees choking out on his cock isn’t cruel enough. A sob shakes him, helpless.

“You like that—” Slade thrusts again, voice low and rough “—cocksucker?”

The pace speeds up, Robin thrown against Slade as roughly as he’s thrown back, as roughly as his mouth is invaded. He finds himself leaning against Slade’s legs, legs spread on either side of his boots. His scalp screams at him where Slade’s fingers yank on his hair and for several seconds Robin has the absurd thought that Slade is going to mess up his hair gel.

Robin wishes with all his soul he could get used to it, to losing the air and the stars that dance behind his eyes, to Slade deep inside him but every thrust makes him scream as much as the first one, every aspect of it from his aching knees to Slade’s hand in his hair hellish. He’s thrown with abandon back and forth, pierced and aching. Eyes roll back in his head as he gets glimpses of lights up above and Slade’s white hair and skin and the creeping sensations. All he can hear is the _schlick _noise of skin and saliva and spit dripping debauched to the floor, slicking Slade’s cock as he moves roughly in and out—faster, faster—

“Pretty whore,” Slade murmurs, and then he’s shuddering as he pulls Robin up around him and thrusting in. Robin’s eyes go wide as heat catches in his throat, hitting his tongue as Slade pulls out. Something sticky is on his lips, tangy and salty and strange. He gags on it, swallowing sporadically as Slade lets go of his hair. Robin crashes to the floor, hands on either sides of Slade’s boots, sputtering as the thick, hot stuff goes all the way down his throat. It drips down his lips, heavy on his tongue, some of it spattering on Slade’s boots.

Cum.

Slade had—

He’d—

In Robin’s mouth—

Robin gags, eyes shut tight as his fingers fist on the floor. Saliva drips from his mouth in a long string, heavy breaths hissing out his nose and tears dribbling behind his eyes. He can still feel the residue sticky down his throat, taste it on his tongue, out of Slade’s cock and down Robin’s _throat_.

“What would your ‘friends’ think if they saw you now, boy?”

Robin looks up at him with wide eyes, barely blinking. He’s still too close, shoving himself away as soon as he realizes. Slade’s fly is zipped up, on hand in his pocket, eye judgmental. As if nothing had ever happened, Robin still splayed on the floor. His head aches, the back of his neck and throat and eyes burning. Nothing leaves his mouth. All he can taste is semen, blinking up at the man he hates most in the world.

_Star—Vic, Gar._

_Rae._

Robin whimpers.

Slade’s eyes flicker down to his own black boots, Robin at the foot of them. Nausea shivers in Robin’s veins, every part of him shaking.

“You made a mess.”

Robin stares down at the cum spilled on the floor, gasped from his own lips. It’s pale and almost transparent on Slade’s dark boots, one drop sneaking down the side.

“Clean it up.”

_No choice._

Robin wants to close his eyes. To fall through the ground, to escape the shame that leaks into every pore, his degraded place on Slade’s floor. And yet he’s here, nothing at all before Slade’s whims, a shivering hand reaching forward to palm away the mess.

Slade all but kicks it away.

“Ah-ah, boy. Use your _tongue_.”

Robin thinks if he looks up at Slade, stares anywhere but his hands and the floor, he might simply dissolve, lose the things that keep his soul together and drift into the wind.

_Your friends_.

They seem distant, not even there, not even real at all. A fantasy, a pretty story Robin tells himself through the cold nights. Make-believe love, beyond the tips of his fingers. Robin doesn’t properly feel his palms resting on the cold floor, barely notices the ache in his neck as he bends over. Slade’s boots are leather, rough on his tongue, grainy dirt picked up with the lukewarm, sticky substance.

Robin imagines washing his mouth out with soap.

Every inch of him shudders in horror as he swallows, the dirt caught between his teeth and cum slick as it goes down. He can taste salt, and he doesn’t know if it’s from the semen or his tears.

Slade’s boots sit in front of him, still spattered. Robin has to lean down again, pick it up with his tongue, feel it slide down his throat like something living meaning to infect him with itself. A tear drips onto the toe of the boot, shining in the sick lighting. Every attempt at “cleaning” Slade’s boots feels like an effort of herculean will. Robin feels sick, and he can’t tell if the sensation is coming from his head or his heart or his soul, but they’re all broken.

The floor is almost worse. It’s covered in the dirt at the bottom of Robin’s feet, grating on the back of his throat as he swallows coldly. There is an eternity before the stuff is finally gone, the only remainder of its existence the streaks of saliva beneath Robin’s hands. He stares, blankly.

“That’s a good boy,” Slade murmurs.

Robin shuts his eyes tight and hopes he’s unreachable. Every part of him feels filthy, as if ants were crawling over ever pore and the bottoms of their feet polluting him and making everything intolerable. Unexistable. He shivers.

“Please—ma—master—” Robin’s voice hitches on the word, so soft he doesn’t know if Slade can hear him from all the way up _there_. He’d be proud of himself for getting the words out if Slade hadn’t flayed the feeling off of him with cruel precision. It takes all his will, pulling on soul he didn’t know he had left to raise his voice and keep it steady. “Please may I have a shower?”

Robin needs it.

Needs to feel clean, to scald the filth off himself with something tangible. The evidence of Slade on his person, wiped away.

He can feel Slade’s eye on him as he keeps his head low. Submissive. It burns on his neck and the back of his head, the curtain of dark hair around Robin’s head nowhere near enough to shield him.

“Very well,” Slade says lightly, and Robin has never been more grateful for anything in his life.


	19. XIX (Interlude)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT!!! chapters 18 and 16 have *somehow* switched places. I am so, so sorry. please take this into account, also, what the fuck.

The compound twists and turns like a labyrinth. Bruce’s ultrasound scanners can’t pierce the wall—it’s lead-lined, as well, and Bruce knows that Slade planned for every contingency. He’s left stumbling through the corridors like a man lost in a black-and-white comic. His radio connection cuts out as he goes further underground, all that’s left to guide him through the place his perfect memory.

Stone kneels on the floor, chromium stained with blood. Fear jolts through Bruce—_Not Robin. Not Robin._

It’s not, not that Bruce can see, but the sight fills him with fury anyways. The small body, discolored as it is, makes his heart scream. A child. Another child.

A sword lays half-in the blood, stained with it. Pulled out of Logan. Foolish, causes blood loss. _Robin wouldn’t have made that mistake_.

“Pulse?”

Stone looks up at him, desperation in his eyes. “Weak.”

Bruce’s critical eye takes in the injuries. “Cauterize. Then leave, get him to a hospital,” he snaps.

“But—”

Bruce quells him with a look. “_Robin_,” he hisses. “Where.”

Stone points with a shuddering hand towards an entrance with an animal-shaped hole pressed through it. “Slade too. Kori went after them—"

Bruce is already gone.

God knows what Slade is doing to him, what Slade has been doing to him, while Bruce has been tracking him down. Bruce’s been working nights, afternoons, every moment he physically can and it still took unacceptably long. Slade knows how to cover his tracks. Another professional, this one more dangerous than anyone Robin’s ever faced before.

Robin probably knows that by now.

Bruce has failed him. He failed him first by letting him leave, very first by letting his parents die, and now Bruce has let him fall into the hands of a psychopath who preys on children. Not found him soon enough. Didn’t notice he was missing fast enough. Failure, failure, failure.

Bruce will make it right. If he can find Robin, bring him back to Gotham, take care of Slade for good, he can make it right. Bruce intends to do every possible thing he can to save Robin, no matter the cost.

The control panels will take too long to hack. Instead, Bruce throughs one of his automatic system intruders over the panel and blows the door he comes across, dancing down halls like a moth in the light. Sometimes he has to pause at intersections. Bruce notices, however, that they’re tending ever so slightly upwards: Slade is trying to take Robin and get out.

_Coward._

Loathing flares in Bruce’s gut thicker than gravy, dribbling down to the tips of his toes and making him run faster, more assured, determined not to let his transgressions pass unpunished. The spectre of the Bat. His cape flares behind him, Bruce mockingly out of place in the stark white walls. His feet pound.

It’s barely a minute before his ears catch the sound between his beats; Bruce stops in silence. He can _almost _hear Slade up ahead; he would doubt himself if he weren’t so familiar with his instincts. Bruce is silent instantly, a hulking shape that shouldn’t be able to move without noise but moves as a spectre despite it. He moves along, clinging to the wall, waiting silently at each intersection.

He’s close. The shadows move beyond the corridor up ahead,

“Batman.”

Bruce gives up all pretense of silence as he moves around the corner. His boots clank on the floor. Slade stands, Robin slumped on the floor behind him. Blood spatters his face and the orange uniform, but no wounds are visible. Robin’s hair hasn’t been spiked up in days, nor has it been cut: it hangs around his gaunt face in pathetic strings, some of it splayed on the floor. Bruce can’t help the palpable relief that jolts through him at seeing Robin unharmed. Safe, as safe as he can be with Slade in such close proximity.

Something glints off of his neck, and for a second Bruce worries it’s a knife—

No, it’s set in dark leather. The light is shining on the _S _symbol set on it.

A collar.

Blood rushes in Batman’s ears, his hands shaking. It takes a second to recognize the overwhelming, unstoppable emotion he feels as pure rage, but by that time his fist is already in the air.

Slade recoils. The cracking sound resounds through the place. A hairline fracture twists the bicolored schema of Slade’s mask; Bruce takes vicious pleasure in it. He pushes the advantage.

Slade dodges the next fist with inhuman speed, his fist coming up to Bruce’s chest. The wind’s almost knocked out of him, and the blow would’ve broken a rib if it wasn’t for Bruce’s armor plates. _Sloppy_.

He channels the fury instead into sharpening his gaze, picking out every little weakness he can exploit in Deathstroke’s stance, in his very being. Bruce advances, pressing his advantage, meaning to pin him against the wall.

“You should’ve let the cops get to you before I did, Wilson,” Bruce snarls. Slade’s knife slips out of its sheath with a slick sound, perhaps thinking Bruce wouldn’t hear.

“That kind of posturing may work on street thugs,” Slade says smoothly. His eye narrows behind its mask. “I’m a professional_._”

Bruce blocks the knife against his gauntlets with a clank, catching it between the spines—Slade jerks it away before Bruce can twist his arm enough to break it into slivers.

Bruce snarls. He moves to knee Slade, Slade blocks. They trade lightning-fast blows that Bruce has to put almost all of his brain into comprehending, blocking the rest on his sheer, sharp honed instinct. “Do you think that makes you better? Criminals—” he punctuates every word with a jab at Slade—“are all the same. Selfish, cowardly, _pathetic_.”

The knife slashes at Bruce’s face, and he has to jerk back to dodge. Slade moves in. Bruce slams his palm into Slade’s nose, bouncing his head off of the back of the wall. Blood stains his hair, like a ladybug in the snow. Slade’s knife catches Bruce in the gut, but the blade only scratches his armor.

Slade spits blood, ducking Bruce’s next punch. It slams into the wall so hard it dents. “You’re just as naïve as your protégé if you think you’re not a criminal.” Slade’s knife slashes at Bruce’s wrist.

Pain jolts up Bruce’s arm and blood spatters in a crescent as he jerks it away. Nothing vital hurt, he can feel it, but it’ll bleed. It stains the wall, splashes Slade’s mask and disfigures it further. “I’m not a killer,” he hisses.

“You should be,” Slade says. “It would get your job done that much faster.”

“You’re a fool and a monster.” Bruce’s eyes flick barely to Robin as he slashes with a ridgehand; it’s deflected easily but Bruce is able to take in where the boy is on his perimeter. _Get Robin._

Then Bruce will take care of Slade.

_Don’t think of what he did to_—

“That’s what your pretty bird screamed too,” Slade breathes. Bruce’s blood drips off the knife in his hand. Bruce is close enough he can hear the man’s horrible, rasping breath.

Bruce slams his head into Slade’s mask. His gauntlet closes around the man’s wrist. The knife hovers in front of Bruce’s face, gleaming. Bruce’s hand shakes as he holds it off, watching the hairline crack starting to break across the hated face. He can’t tell if his hand is shaking with exertion or fury or a toxic cocktail of both, can’t hear anything but the blood pounding in his ears.

“_What did you do to him._”

Slade presses off against the wall, doing his best to lean as much of his weight as he can onto Bruce. More pressure, more pain in Bruce’s arm as the knife drifts closer. Blood oozes slowly to the floor.

“Just taught him a few lessons. Ones you missed.”

“He doesn’t need to learn from _you_,” Bruce hisses. His hand shoots out, pushing Slade’s arm to the side with a sharp chop. He ducks out of the way, leaving Slade spinning forward. Bruce is out, but Slade is one step closer to Robin.

“Well you left a few things out,” Slade murmurs. The tone of his voice is mocking, barely serious. _He means to make you angry, _Bruce reminds himself. “Really, I was surprised you hadn’t had a go at him. You sure that pretty face didn’t tempt you even a little?”

With a yell, Bruce is running at him. The two of them slam together against the wall, Slade taking the brunt of the force. Something punches into Bruce’s armor in his gut—another knife, not quite in the cracks of his armor but slipping towards it as Slade moves around. Bruce’s gauntleted hand comes up and then smashes down on Slade’s mask, cracking it further. It comes up again—

Slade’s knife slips between the cracks in Bruce’s armor. It doesn’t _hurt _at first but Bruce can feel the blade sliding into him, freezing cold where it should never be. He pulls back on instinct, jerking back from Slade. Blood drips down his uniform; the knife barely went in, a shallow crimson smear still on it.

“You’re a sick, sick, man,” Bruce breathes. “I’m going to put you away for a long, long time.”

_Put him away_.

Bruce wants to kill him.

He wants him dead. Bruce hasn’t thought of anyone he’s hated more in a long, long time. Maybe forever, because he just—

He just admitted to . . .

_God, Robin . . ._

Who knows what kind of hell he’s been subject to while Slade tries to break him. ‘Teach him.’

Bruce’s vision is tinged red. It shakes and it takes him a few seconds to realize that it’s not just him; the whole place is shaking. It’s tempting to put it up to Beast Boy’s rampage to open the doors and get through the building, but unless he was invested in causing structural damage . . .

The place is most likely self-destructing.

“I’m afraid I have to be going,” Slade purrs.

“If you hand over Robin,” Bruce growls, “I just might let you.”

Slade laughs, low and cruel. Bruce wonders how many times Robin has heard that sound over the past months, been kept as party to it.

“You let him run around getting into trouble,” Slade says. “He doesn’t _belong _to you anymore.”

Bruce swings at him again. This time Slade blocks, ducking; Bruce kicks at him and catches his forearm. He dodges the next few blows; Slade must be trying to get Bruce out of the picture as soon as possible. Good. He’s on a timetable now.

The place shakes again.

Cyborg should be getting his injured teammate out soon enough. Good. Bruce should be able to get out on his own with his memory of the place.

“He doesn’t belong to anyone,” Bruce responds, the two of them trading blows in so close it’s hard to tell what the other one is saying. It sounds hollow.

_Robin is mine. I raised him. Who the _hell _does Wilson think he is?_

“Really?” Slade sneers dangerously. “Did you watch him writhe on your cock? Watch him squirm to get off you and jizz so deep in hi—”

Bruce runs at him, kicking at his face. Slade barely ducks, the blows coming from Bruce angry and with so much punch behind them even he doesn’t know where the next one is coming from. _Robin. Robin, Robin . . ._

Defiled, made filthy by Slade, hurt so badly—

“I’ll kill you,” Bruce hisses.

Something flashes in Wilson’s eye, something Bruce doesn’t quite understand. Bruce is coming at him and Wilson doesn’t stand a chance. The tread of Bruce’s boot hits him in the face, head spinning half ways around. Part of the mask comes off, revealing snow white hair stained with rivulets of blood. The sight, Bruce thinks, is good. He thinks of Robin, laying on the floor with his collar gleaming in the name of the man who stands before him, so unrepentant. He tries to block, but it still hurts to be pounded into by Bruce’s furious fists, Slade moving back to have his back to the wall.

Slade’s dodging slightly now, forcing Bruce to put just a little more thought into where his strikes land. Every inch of him wants to put the man into a pulp, into something that can never hurt anyone ever again. Never lay a hand on Robin, never put anything else in him.

He wants to tear the collar off and hold Robin to his chest and make sure he’s alright. Next time Bruce will be more careful about where he plants his bugs, will make sure they can’t be traced or removed—even if Robin knows enough to look for them. He’ll make sure he’s looking at the Titans too, so they never slip anything past him.

This is all Bruce’s fault.

He has to make it right.

He pulls back, forcing himself to look at Slade in analytical terms—let his rage lessen a little, push it back. Usually he can work through it. Now, it’s been harder. Slade still stands near Robin, bleeding a little and breathing hard. He’s guarded, guarding his turf—

Something in his hand.

A red flickering light.

Bruce yells, jumping forward. A bomb—

Slade’s fist slams down.

The whole place shakes, down to Bruce’s bones. He’s jumping forward, and the dust hits his face before the everything shudders. The air chafes on his skin.

Bruce slams into something hard. It’s rough and uneven, and he’s barely protected through his armor. The place must have collapsed where Slade set the charge meaning—

The sonic sensors on his suit come on. Bruce fumbles along the wall, then looking with the technology, trying to find a way through. There’s a small crack, still filled with dust. Bruce tries to pry it open, but it won’t budge. He picks up one of the boulders at the edge, heaving—

Something crackles above him. Bruce has only instinct to force him to dive away before the rubble comes down behind him. Some of it almost gets on his cape, dragging it down. He rolls, dust coloring his suit white and grey. He’s on his feet seconds later, ignoring the bruises and the blood that smears the floor. _Robin._

Where’s Robin?

He was laying where the rocks have fallen before they came down, Bruce remembers that. Laying there, which means . . . Slade most likely took him. The thought of that man having his hands on Robin for one more second makes Bruce sick to his stomach but it’s better than the inconceivable: Robin’s death. If Slade wanted him dead, he would be, and Slade planned this. That just means Bruce has to get to Slade, get Robin from him, and end this once and for all.

One way or another.

He tries to remember the routes, quickly calculating them in his head before he’s turning and running as fast as he can to get to the next junction. If he can just loop around, he can guess where the escape tunnel will be and catch them before they get there, before the place comes down around his head. His feet pound on the tile. _Robin, Robin, Robin—_

Something buzzes. It’s his transmitter; Bruce registers surprise because he didn’t think there was a signal at all down here. He’s about to hit the off button but Cyborg’s voice runs through the line. It’s shaky, unsure—trying to sound in control.

“Batman! Batman—he’s not breathing. Barely breathing. I don’t think he’s going to . . . make it.”

Beast Boy. “Where are you?”

“Just down the tunnel where we entered. There’s a cave-in, but it’s not bad. I’m trying to get him out of here and to a hospital . . .”

“Chest compressions if he stops breathing. Otherwise, keep moving. You need to get out of here. It’s going to self-destruct.”

Cyborg mutters something under his breath that sounds like _fucking psycho_. “Well then you should—”

“_I’ll _worry about me,” Bruce growls. “You worry about Beast Boy. Get him somewhere you can help him.”

He senses the tremors shaking under his feet. Bruce balances easily, pausing only seconds at the intersection to calculate the direction and the probability of where he’s supposed to be going. Likely, it’ll be near enough to the command center to reach easily but not close enough that it can be easily infiltrated—next to a bedroom, most likely. That’s what Bruce would do, and Slade is as much of a strategist as Bruce is. However much Bruce hates to admit any similarity between them—

Bruce loves Robin. Slade doesn’t, seems to be incapable of such a feeling. Just another psychopathic freak, except this one has gotten its hands on Robin and managed to bend him to its nefarious ends.

The next passageway makes Bruce think he’s getting closer. He could be hearing them, but it’s hard to tell under the shaking of the rock and the rumbling of the tunnels. The good thing is, Slade with an unconscious Robin won’t stand a chance speed wise when Bruce finds out where they are. The thought spurs him on even more.

This time, he has to resort to primitive radar when it comes to finding them. Slade’s probably already halfway to whichever way he intends to flee . . . not, not flee. He’s not leaving because he’s afraid, he’s leaving because he needs to steal away Robin. Bruce hadn’t been able to make out much of the conversation, but he understood that there had been leverage against Robin that had been removed. He’d been blackmailed—of course he’d been blackmailed, he never would’ve worked for Slade otherwise. Even if his team doubted him, Bruce never would; he knows him better, longer, had trained him for years. Bruce knew him better than to think he would ever join a villain or _betray _Bruce, no matter how much he appeared to have. Robin is a good person, fundamentally, or Bruce would never have let him into the Batman business.

The tunnels in Bruce’s mask coalesce into something that gives him a good idea of where Slade is. The sonic hums softly in his ears, just above his range of hearing. Slade can hear it, knows Bruce is coming—but that was a foregone conclusion. Bruce rushes along.

Slade does hear him coming. By the time Bruce rounds the final corner with batarangs in his fingers, flinging them at the first moving shape, Slade has his sword out. It deflects them, awkward in the small passage, Bruce dodging as they clink off of the wall.

“Running? I should have known,” he growls.

“This place is coming down. If you want to stay, be my guest,” Slade replies. He brandishes his sword, the few lights that are still flickered on shining off of the blade. No blood on it, yet.

_He didn’t stab Beast Boy_? He could’ve; it’s _off _that Slade has his favorite blade and would resort to using imperfect ones instead. It’s not important right now, but Bruce files it away for later.

“I’m not going anywhere without taking care of _you_,” Bruce replies. He reaches into his belt, but before he gets a chance, Slade’s sword is coming at him. Bruce jumps back, ready to sling a smoke bomb—

The sword doesn’t come at him. Instead, it swings in a wide arc and lands just inches shy of a pale, green vein pumping barely beneath the skin. Robin’s jugular, the boy propped unconscious half against the wall. Bruce can see the razor tip of the sword digging into the skin just enough to _not _bleed, dangerous and lethal. Just like Slade.

Bruce can’t sense an ounce of bluff in Slade’s voice, but he doesn’t think Slade has that in him; he’s too straightforward. Instead, he simply holds the sword motionless in the air. The floor shakes, but the tip doesn’t move: still dangerous, micrometers away from a cut that could very well be fatal.

Robin’s blood, gushing over the floor and creating a crimson pool, the blue eyes going dark as he stares up at Bruce; clawing weakly at his hand and staining it red—

Bruce strangles the thought.

Its corpse stays in his mind, lingering, haunting.

He won’t let that happen.

“I’ll be leaving,” Slade purrs. “And you’ll be staying _right here_.” His gloved hand fists in the collar that makes Bruce so sick to look at, his sword coming up as he hauls Robin forward. “Unless you want him to be missing some very important parts.”

Bruce can’t move.

If it wasn’t Robin and Slade he could do something, if it wasn’t someone with reflexes even faster than his and Robin, a boy who he can’t risk losing. Not to Slade, not now.

His mouth is set in a hating line, fists clenched as he watches Slade.

Bruce takes a step forward—

Crimson blooms at Robin’s throat. “Not one more step,” Slade hisses. “I’m going to walk around that corner, Batman, and if I se the tiniest flash of black from behind me—well, this boy is much more valuable to you than he is to me.”

“You’re a _monster_,” Bruce tells him.

“I’ve heard,” Slade replies dryly.

Robin lays there at his feet, pale. His body is bruised, and Bruce can almost see them under the jumpsuit he wears. He can guess what kind of horror Slade has wrung him through, the kinds of things he plans to do to him next. Robin looks small, so young, slumped motionless and stringy hair bunched in Slade’s fist. Something in pain, mercifully unconscious.

_I’m coming to save you, Robin, _Bruce swears. _Dick._

_I’m coming._

Slade’s cruel eye narrows as he moves back around the corner, Robin’s legs dragging behind him. The corridor shakes, dust sprinkling Robin’s already pale face and making him look ghostly.

Bruce almost wants to scream.

The orange and black disappears, Bruce unable to follow. He shakes with the anger and fury of it, Slade’s blood still dripping from his fist. Something in him is screaming to get out, to go after them.

But if he lets it out, Robin will suffer.

That is unacceptable.

Something buzzes in his ear, and Bruce’s finger goes up to press it, as if in a trance.

“Batman—Batman, Beast Boy . . .” The voice is choked with pain, shivering over the line.

_No. No, no, no—_

“He’s dead,” Cyborg whispers.


	20. XX

_ He wades through something deep, sticky on his skin. It smells foul, Robin trying to push the smell out of his nose by burying his nose in his shirt. He takes one step forward, and then another. There is nothing more he wants than to turn around and go back, but Robin knows that there is no shore in sight. The stuff is getting deeper, forcing more of it to stain his skin and body with its filth. _

_He moves forward seemingly without his own desire or want, wading through it as it drags against his skin. It’s getting easier, getting deeper. It’s on his neck, choking him as sure as any hands against his neck, or Slade’s cock buried in his throat. It can’t be stopping, moving forward with a nonexistent current. The stuff is in his mouth, it tastes like salt in blood. It’s up his nose, Robin gasping in it for breath. It moves to his eyes, and he can see it—_

_Blood, for miles and miles, thick and red and under the water, deeper than Robin knows how to imagine. It stains him, seeping through his skin and settling on his muscles, staining his bones pink and taking his own blood into it. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t breathe_can’tbreathecan’tbreathecan’tbreathe—

Slade’s vicious eye stares through him. Robin’s mouth gapes at him, nothing in his throat, nothing in his lungs. He shudders, kicking desperately. The feet hit nothing. Something catches at the edge of vision, blackness edging in over him. His hands close around Slade’s wrist on his throat, pale and small against Slade’s skin. He can’t budge it, doesn’t know why he tries.

Panic shudders through his body, muscles spasming and screaming for oxygen. They all ache, starting to ache, a pounding in his head as the darkness closes in. Slade is killing him, Slade is trying to kill him, and _god, would death be so bad?_—

Robin is sucking in air with every last bit of his lungs. The burning stops as they expand almost past their limit. Stars dance in front of eyes. Robin exhales as fast as he can just to yank in as much oxygen as he can into his aching, screaming body. He gasps there, panting under Slade. He can feel Slade’s hand resting on his throat, heart beating against Slade’s warm palm. Slade’s thumb moves under Robin’s jawline idly.

“What . . .”

“A reminder.” One last squeeze, and Slade’s hands are gone. Robin sucks in more air, feeling his lungs expand. His eyes still dance with red behind them. Blood.

Blood on his hands. Blood on the shining blade, dripping in crimson droplets.

Coughed crimson onto his face, wide eyes of shock and . . . betrayal.

Beast Boy.

_Gar._

Robin stares at the ceiling. He can still see him.

He closes his eyes.

Gar stares back at him, eyes accusing.

Robin opens them again, choking, sitting up on shaking arms. One goes to his throat; all he feels is his collar cold on his palm. Like normal. 

The room is small. The stone here is pale grey. Light doesn’t reflect off of them as well, leaving Slade’s face half in shadow. Robin thinks it makes him less threatening because he can’t see the expression in the eye unless he tilts his head a certain way. Maybe it’s better to pretend that Slade simply has no eyes, no feelings.

“Beast Boy . . .” Robin whispers.

“You did very well,” Slade purrs. His hand is warm on Robin’s thigh. Robin stares at it numbly.

But it doesn’t move anywhere. Slade just stands up from the chair he’d been sitting in. _For how long? How long had it been? They’re somewhere else . . ._

“Is he . . .”

Slade smiles. Robin notices that he’s bleeding, a slit of red on his lips. A tongue flicks at it, bringing it back into Slade’s mouth, slick with saliva.

“I believe he asphyxiated on his own blood, thanks to the sword in his stomach. There was no hospital in a ten-minute radius.”

Robin stares.

He bleeds behind his face, behind his eyes, somewhere nobody knows. It drips down his face, hot and painful.

Except that’s just his own pathetic tears, collecting at the corners of his eyes and trickling down his cheeks. Robin opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

Gar, the youngest, making jokes to hide the pain and because he wanted other people to be happy, chasing after Raven and playing video games with Cyborg and Robin and cursing when he loses and the twitch he made when he smelled meat and and and—

Everything he is.

Gone.

Lost on Robin’s sword, because he—didn’t know it was there? Couldn’t tell it was there? It simply existed in that space in time in Robin’s fist and he never realized it, didn’t even know what his hand was doing at the time, not until the shuddering aftereffects of someone slamming into it had awakened him to its existence. Not until hot blood spattered on his fingers and hand, not until he stared down at the dripping thing in his hand, sheathed in Gar.

It had become like an extension of him. That’s how you use weapons, make them _you_, and Robin—

He’d fell for it. For Slade’s trap. He’d gotten _used _to it, the sword through the air like it belongs there,

Robin had wanted to kill Slade. He’d killed Gar instead.

Something roils in his stomach. He can tell Slade is still standing next to him, reminding him, but he doesn’t look. Instead, Robin pushes himself over to the side of the bed and dry heaves. He spasms, goosebumps rushing up and down his arms and spine. A small stream of saliva drips from his lips. Only acid comes up.

Gar, bleeding.

The tears drip down.

Gar is gone. Star is gone—Robin is here. With Slade, after all, without an escape.

Except—

The nanobots.

They’re gone.

Robin stares up at Slade, slowly rising up his muscular form, danger in every inch of it, pain that Robin knows so well. The singular eye stares, strangely unreadable.

Robin could attack him this instant. Shake off his pounding head and jump him. Hurt him, claw his head until he bleeds. Yank at his hair until he screams.

Slade still stands there as indomitable as ever. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t flinched, and Robin . . .

He should be able to get up, to get something he can use against him, to _hurt _Slade. But did Slade really use the nanobots against him? All Robin remembers is Slade pinning him, hitting him, whipping him, raping him. He’s only used the controller when he had to. When he was murdering Raven, threatening Robin.

Slade still overpowers Robin, still leers over him. Still holds the knife.

Robin rubs his throat. He can still feel Slade’s fingers clenched around it, Slade’s cock thick in his mouth. He shivers. He can’t bring himself to attack, can’t think about attacking without a jolt of panic shivering through his limbs.

_Weren’t you able to just—back then?_

When Star looked at him with big, grateful eyes, and looked at him like she believed in him. When he had hope, when Cyborg told him he could trust them, when Gar looked at him like a friend, when everything made sense. When it was back like the _old _times, where Robin knew who he was and what he was supposed to be doing. When all his friends were there with him.

The Teen Titans, cut down to three—all through Robin’s negligence.

No. Cut down to two, because Robin—

Robin killed Beast Boy.

Something drips off his chin. Tears. Good. He should cry, because he deserves it. He failed them, all of them, _again_. Just Cyborg and Star left and . . .

God, how did things end up like this?

Robin stares blankly into Slade’s lined face. Taking up arms against him seems ridiculous.

“I hate you,” Robin says. It’s not an accusation, not an angry insistence, just a sorrowful statement. He rubs his eyes angrily, face stinging raw with salt.

Slade’s mouth splits like a gash, a half-smile of indulgent amusement. “Is it really me you blame for your friend’s death?”

Robin’s hands fist in the sheets. He feels sticky with sweat, all of it still aching over him. Tainting him, just like everything else. He wonders if Beast Boy’s blood is still there.

His skin aches with the awfulness of it.

He should blame Slade. This is Slade’s fault. Maybe Robin does blame him, he doesn’t know, but he feels _hate _that aches in his chest so soon after the death. The worthless skin he lives in that can’t control its own actions. That falls so easily into what Slade wants for it.

“That’s what I thought.” A pause. “A pity you didn’t learn what happens when you try to defy me the first time, hm?”

Robin stares up at him. He shivers, chokes on his own pain. If he had known—

He thought Slade couldn’t do anything else. Had he . . . somehow caused this? Is it even possible he could have? Maybe he’d wormed his way into Robin’s brain, implanted something in him, bent his bones to exist only for Slade’s whims. Forced him to kill Beast Boy. Maybe the sword was cursed with some dark magic, and it had burnt its hand to Robin’s soul.

Isn’t this what _happens_? Won’t Slade hunt down his friends if Robin defies him, because he knows who they are—can show up at Vic’s house and kill his family, his own father. The father Robin _knows _Cy loves even though he fights with him, the man that Robin knows cares about him back. It barely even matters if Slade did it, it’s simply the order of the universe for Robin’s friends to die when Slade is unsatisfied with him. It’s one of the new rules in the strange, twisted world he is forced to exist in, without rhyme or reason.

Why did he expect things would be alright?

Why was he stupid enough to dare to _hope_?

* * *

Slade forces Robin up out of bed almost instantly. The room is bare, just as uninteresting as the rest of the place—if smaller than what he’s used to. There’s a real mattress under him, better than what he’d had before.

Slade holds up two fingers. “How many fingers?”

“Two,” Robin replies dully, through the pounding ache in his head. It throbs with every awful beat of his heart, pounding through his skull and shivering down his spine, determined to possess every part of him. Slade hums approval.

Robin curls up again on the bed without asking, but Slade doesn’t say anything. He just looks around the place with a quick flick of his eye. Robin cradles his head, pressing at his forehead to make the pain go down, as still as possible so as not to aggravate it. _Focus on the pain_. He yanks it to the front of his consciousness, forces it to take up all of his perception, his thoughts and memories and wants, the agony of it drowning out everything else so perfectly. It’s better than everything else.

Still, he can’t help but pray that Slade is done with him for now. He can’t imagine enduring Slade inside him again, not now, when it’s all screaming along his skin in horrible cacophony. Something in the universe listens to him the littlest bit.

“You’ll be staying here from now on,” Slade says. His footsteps seem to echo in Robin’s brain, thankfully growing softer as he moves away. It still aches in Robin’s mind. The door opens with a soft click. Robin flinches as it slams shut. He’s glad Slade is gone, even for this little bit of peace, eyes shut so tight he can see the color behind them. The small body he inhabits shivers, twitching as the light goes out. Everything feels numb, removed. Robin is grateful for that as he drifts thoughtlessly off to sleep, glad that he doesn’t have to feel any more than the pain that shudders through his system.

This sleep is better, more helpful and more restful than the forced sleep using the drug that Slade gave him. Robin drifts off easily, pain carrying him into a place where he barely has to think at all.

* * *

Robin wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later, staring at the pale ceiling. It’s lost on him why it’s so different for a few seconds and then he remembers that this isn’t the same place. Another place, god knows where, where his friends can’t find them again.

_Gar_.

Robin shivers, an almost-sob twitching from his lips. It’s a good thing his friends can’t find him; the few remaining friends can’t find him. He wishes for all the world he could roll over and escape back into his subconscious, but he doesn’t feel tired enough to. Instead, he closes his eyes and stares at the blankness behind them. Everything aches, down to his very soul. It seems like too much pain for one person to bear, and he thinks that if he touches it, it will most certainly hurt him

_Robin’s own bloodied hand, holding out a knife giving death._

_Don’t think about that._

_Beast Boy’s face as—_

_Don’t think._

“Good morning, Robin.” Robin flinches in surprise, every muscle tensing under the blankets as he shudders. He feels his breath come quicker, heart pounding in his ears.

_It’s just Slade._

_‘Just’ Slade._

Robin doesn’t know if he’s supposed to respond or not, simply staring up at Slade’s looming form. He moves to try to feel less small in the wake of it, pushing his hands up underneath him. They shiver slightly. Robin wonders how much time has passed, but he knows better than to expect Slade to give him a clear answer on that. He’s at Slade’s whim.

As always.

Still captive.

“Get up.”

Robin follows the orders numbly, pulling the sheets around himself as his bare feet hit the cold, tiled floor. He’s naked under it save for the collar, as he always is. The bruises from the fight ache, meaning it must not have been too much time. Slade offers a pair of clothes, Robin taking them. The sheets are shed, vulnerable and pale and crisscrossed with inky bruises. Slade’s eye takes him in. Robin knows what he’s planning to do this evening and shivers, pulling the clothes on as swiftly as he can. It doesn’t help. Slade will probably take extra pleasure in tearing it off him.

The door opens. And just like that, everything is . . .

Just the same.

Nothing is changed, Robin still shivering and trailing after Slade like an obedient pet. A collar still hugging his neck, still kept. Like he could fight back against Slade.

Fighting isn’t an option. It never was . . . but fleeing . . . .

Leaving seems like an almost ridiculous, intoxicating idea. Flying outside the windows this place doesn’t have, running as far as he can with bare feet pounding underneath his body and never coming back.

The thought makes Robin shake. Slade wouldn’t let him, Slade would hurt him for it, would hurt his friends—

He still knows their names. Not that it would help him find Kori, thank god, but Vic . . .

_I can’t_.

_I can’t, not again. I can’t let him die again._

How would he even escape? There’s the control panels near to the doors, and even if Robin doesn’t know the codes, he can probably rewire them. Maybe. If he . . .

_No. No! _He knows this! Batman trained him to be able to! But Robin . . .

He can’t.

Another one of his friends would die. Another one of his friends has always, always died, no matter what, whenever he fights back against Slade. His stupidity gets them killed so easily. Gar . . . .

Slade did that. It was Robin’s fault. It was his punishment, Robin can feel it, the universe getting back at him for thinking he was allowed to _hope_.

The room here that’s obviously used for sparring is much smaller. Pads on the floor have nooks and crannies in them. Robin peaks in, flinching as Slade opens the door, and padding in after him. Weapons—few with real blades—line the walls, and Slade spins one of the _bo _staves in his hand before slamming it against the floor with a practiced strength. Robin shivers, Slade glancing over to him.

The swords still hang there on the wall, glinting behind Slade. Robin’s eyes drift to them, fixate on them helplessly as he feels something in his gut go sick, his hand clenching around nothing. _No, no, please don’t—_

Slade’s other hand clasps around the grip of the sword. He flips it so his hand holds the blade.

“Take it.”

Robin mutters a _yes, master _of acknowledgement before holding out his hand to receive it. It’s not like he’s ever had a choice. His hand shakes like the bare branches of stripped trees in a vicious storm, the sword steadying him more than he steadies it.

He doesn’t dare look up at Slade, but the words still slip through his lips.

“Is this . . . the one—”

“No point in a new one.” Slade watches him, and Robin feels his face collapse in on himself. The sword shakes more. He can almost see the crimson on it, spilling onto the floor, onto Gar’s face, onto his own hands.

“I-I-I-I _can’t_,” Robin whispers, almost inaudible, staring down at it like it’s the only thing in his horrible world.

Fingers close around his chin, Robin shivering as he’s yanked up to stare at Slade’s piercing blue eye and patch of void. “Of course you can,” Slade mocks, low. His voice turns hard. “And if you don’t, I’ll add another round of scars to that soft skin of yours.”

Robin sobs slightly, fingers closing hard and rough around the thing that sits there. He can’t bear to look at it, instead staring at Slade’s face even when his chin is dropped. Slade drops into his stance and Robin is forced to follow him by sheer seconds or risk getting badly hurt. Slade starts pushing at him with the _bo_, and Robin’s lost in the fear of the pain that Slade will inflict if he lets himself get hit, in the snapped words of correction that Slade gives at every whim. He feels the blades spinning in his hands, shivering and sick. Gar stares behind his eyes.

All Robin’s fault.

_No._

Slade made him like this. Slade made him do this. Slade hurt him, confused him, made everything wrong and broken and never right at all. It’s part of Slade’s world, never who Robin was—is—could have been, might be. His hands clench around the swords so hard his knuckles ache.

The next slash of it goes over Slade’s head, sheering off translucent strands of long white hair, and it means so little but so much. Something dances in Slade’s eye, a low pleasure, and Robin doesn’t care. He attacks in a furious flurry of blows, aiming the sharpness everywhere on Slade’s body he can reach—his torso, his neck, his head. Anywhere _lethal_.

_No killing_, that’s the rule, but Robin won’t be able to kill him. He can’t kill Slade, that would be ridiculous. Robin knows, intellectually, that Slade is only a mortal man, but there’s some part of him that doesn’t believe that the swords will hit home.

That, and Slade is just _that good._

He steps out of the way with grace that a man so hulking shouldn’t have, Robin’s blade pressing past him into the air. “Aim for the jugular. Good,” Slade notes, and Robin is on him again, steel clanging against Slade’s own sword.

The words remind Robin forcefully of Bruce’s rare compliments, something moving in the back of Robin’s mind that he ignores. The next minutes of the fighting session are fast and brutal, every ounce of his energy forced into going after Slade and trying to .. .

Trying to hurt him, as little as Robin wants to admit it, even though the thought is pushed as far back into the end of his mind as he can with all his other worries. Everything devolves into the sheer physical, the pounding of his feet and the abrupt movements of Slade, the adrenaline that races through his system and the clash of lethal, murderous blades. It hurts less fighting like this, the pain overtaken by the burning in his heavy limbs and the bruises of Slade’s feet slamming into his gut or the side of his arm.

He’s on his knees for the twelfth or thirteenth time before he knows it, panting in heavy and aching breaths down to the padded ground. The swords glint in his fists, arms shivering as he tries to pull himself up again. Robin shivers on his legs, staring up at Slade. To his relief, he’s not attacked again. It’s over, finally, and Robin hasn’t even collapsed yet.

Terror spikes in his gut as Slade steps towards him, Robin shivering this time with fear, but he’s not forced to his knees again. Instead, Slade holds out his hands for the blades back. For once, Robin is happy to give up his weapons to Slade. The things leave a veneer of filth on his palms, Robin rubbing them off against his thighs.

He’ll have to do it against next time. He’ll probably pretend-try to kill Slade that time, too.

_No killing_, something in him whispers, but it doesn’t count. Not here and not now. He can’t kill Slade—

And he’s already broken his rule. _Gar._

Robin rubs at his face, trying to pretend he’s not crying again.

* * *

The bed is different, but everything about it is the same. The important thing is shivering under the blankets, waiting for Slade’s shadow in the doorway. Staring anywhere but at his face. Eyes fixed on the ceiling as the bed groans under Slade’s weight.

“Spread your legs, boy,” Slade murmurs. Robin’s shivering thighs part under his hands, legs pushed back.

Slade moves in him harsh and vicious. A hand presses on Robin’s chest. Robin’s head tosses to the side in the sheets. The wall is rough. Slade’s balls slap against him with a sick noise, Robin’s body opening again to take Slade.

It hurts.

“That’s it, take it all,” Slade’s murmuring. “Tight little thing, heh, _hnn_ –”

Robin cries out. He can’t help it. It doesn’t matter anymore. Cum leaks out of him as Slade zips himself up with a satisfied smirk. He leans over.

Robin’s face tries to shirk away from the fingers teasing his cheek, but Slade’s hand grabs hard onto him. His eyes are shut tight, but he can still see Slade’s eye staring as cold and empty as the void. “I know you know I can use you for what I like,” Slade muses, “but I want you to remember all your _friends_, and your _Batman_—” Robin winces, trying to pull away, to no avail. He can hear the grin. “—They can’t save you from _me_.”

* * *

Everything feels numb.

Robin welcomes that, however temporary it is.

* * *

If there was any light in Robin’s cell at all, it would glint off of the metal doorframe that secures the thing to its place in the wall. Robin slowly finds himself tracing the edges of it one night, assessing it for how easy it would be to get past. He can’t shake the shivering paranoia on the edge of his consciousness that tells him he’s being watched by Slade, even though the whole room is pitch black. Robin has to fumble his way back to the small mattress, reminded about how the whole cell has moved from what he’s used to.

Because . . .

Because of Gar.

The small blanket isn’t enough to stop his shivering, Robin drifting off in the darkness. He can’t help but think—he knows the metal threads through the wall, connects to the control panel on the other side of it. It can’t be _that _complicated, and Robin knows his training is good. He might be able to get through it.

If he dared.

It’s only then that Robin realizes that Slade hasn’t been in to find him this evening. He’s still awake, despite the fatigue that weighs down on every inch of him. The fear of Slade shoots through his veins in sparks, and even laying in the pitch black with his eyes closed does nothing at all. He can’t sleep, not knowing when the door will creak open and Slade will be there.

Robin doesn’t know how long he lays there under the blanket, shivering in expectancy. He swears he can see green eyes staring out at him out of the corners of his own, Star watching him as he wishes she always was.

That’s what he likes to pretend, but really he knows it’s the darkness and his sleepiness playing tricks on his mind. Once or twice he swears he can see the door opening and light cutting into the room like a knife, but there’s nothing when he sits up with a jerk.

Eventually, he must have passed out from sheer exhaustion in his small, abused body, the darkness even deeper than that in which he lives.

* * *

Robin jerks awake. Light cuts into the cell, silhouetting Slade’s imposing form as Robin shivers. He realizes the blankets have fallen off of him in his sleep, hastily shuddering and pulling them back over his naked body. Every part of him aches, and the little motivation he might have had disappears when Slade doesn’t make a move to try to force him up. Instead, he just pulls the blanket tighter around himself. It’s not enough to stave off the cold, but it makes him feel safer nonetheless.

Slade’s footsteps grow closer. The door _clicks _behind him.

Robin feels himself pulling back to the stone wall, eyes flicking up and down Slade’s form. There’s something in there he doesn’t like at all, even if the creases are obscured by the darkness of the fabric, if half of Slade’s eyes aren’t even there.

_Coward_, he admonishes, but no part of his body will properly move at his brain’s command.

“Lay back down, boy,” Slade orders. He’s by the bed now, Robin shivering. The dark shape towers even in the light, and even though the shadow barely changes the level of light, it makes Robin shiver.

He knows the look in Slade’s eye, the posture, the thumb hooked in the belt (_ready to slip it free . . ._).

Robin can feel the space behind his eyes aching a little, but he’s not crying. It’s too familiar. Slowly, fingers curling so hard into the blanket that his knuckles turn white from the strain, he presses himself back down and stares up at the white ceiling. Just the last place. Just like every other time.

“Good,” Slade purrs. Something shivers down Robin’s spine, fingers loosening. He takes a breath, trying to keep himself here, even as Slade’s form begins to take up so much of his vision. _You’ve done this before_.

If Robin had gotten away from Slade, he wouldn’t have to. He would be home with his friends in the tower, sleeping soundly and in warm sheets and—

The bed creaks as Slade kneels on it. Robin can feel his own body sinking lower into the part that Slade has created, the man is so heavy. Hands land on his hips, Robin shivering but unable to move. Slade’s thumbs move on the outsides of his stomach, sending something oily jerking up his spine.

“Please just—do it,” Robin whispers. “ . . . Master.”

Slade hums. His hands move up Robin’s chest, to his clavicle. Robin’s breath catches as he feels a thumb on his jugular, feeling his pulse. A lifting of Slade’s body and suddenly the weight is resting uncomfortably on Robin’s hips.

That’s not what he does. Maybe he’s not going—

_Oh._

Robin opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Slade’s thumb slips in between his teeth, index finger joining it to pry the orifice open just as surely as if it were Robin’s ass.

Robin wonders what would happen if he threw up while laying on his back. He’d choke to death on his own vomit—

Better than choking to death on Slade.

Something pathetic and whimpery makes its way out around Slade’s fingers, but he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Robin knows he can’t watch, can only feel Slade’s weight creeping up his body with the horrible inevitability of always. He almost bursts into tears with the thought of Slade in his mouth again. All he does is shut his eyes as tight as he can so that the darkness is still there, encircling him with at least something that’s not Slade.

“Shy, pet?” Slade chides. Some weight leaves Robin’s chest and he tries to press himself so far into the mattress he will disappear, but he’s still forced into existence under Slade. Fingers rub the side of Robin’s face, almost gently.

They drift away, and Robin hears the zipper. He flinches bodily, shivering into the blankets, but Slade’s hand on his face holds him still. Thick fingers dig into him deeper, pressing down on his tongue. Something comes out of Robin’s mouth, some poor attempt at speech, but even he doesn’t know what he’s trying to say.

The darkness takes him over, shivering through his bones as cold as ice. He can feel Slade shifting, feel something heavy on his tongue. His head’s pulled forward slightly, the head of Slade sliding almost his tongue. Robin gags, half unnoticed with Slade’s fingers prying him so open. Slade slides deeper.

Robin tries to move his mouth to beg, but all his lips do are close around the skin of Slade’s cock in his mouth. He’s stuck still, Slade’s fingers closing around his jaw as he’s pried further and further open. Slade’s hips move, thighs pressing upwards. Robin’s eyes shut tighter as Slade slides further into him with a disgusting, slick noise that rings in his ears. His throat closes over the invasion but Slade doesn’t stop, forcing himself further against the aching edges of Robin’s throat. He hits the back of it in seconds, hands cradling the back of Robin’s neck and digging into his hair, pulling him along the shaft.

Hands clench in the sheets, Robin tugging at them in distress he has no way to alleviate. It doesn’t move, unnoticed under the weight of Slade crushing him, or maybe that’s just his fear pushing onto his chest. He’s being invaded, again, the gagging of his throat closing roughly around Slade’s member making tears wet his darkened eyes. A soft groan from above him; it slips a few inches back. Robin’s throat convulses as Slade slides past the last of him, forcing him to be impaled on his shaft.

“Good boy,” Slade purrs. Robin cries around him, lips spread at the base of Slade’s cock. At some point, the fingers had slipped out, leaving him choking. Again.

_Please let it be over soon_, is all Robin can pray, desperate. All he can do is focus on Slade’s fingers behind his head, propping him up so he can take it more easily, so Slade can thrust into him. The saliva dribbles down Robin’s chin and onto his face, forming sticky strands before it’s dunked into his throat again. Robin jerks, Slade’s hand tightening on the back of him.

“Stay still,” he chides. Robin shivers, hands tugging on the sheets. He can feel Slade’s balls resting on his chin, the hair in his nostrils when he tries to grab a breath. Everything narrows to the rhythm that builds, Slade moving like a piston in and out of Robin’s throat as his hips slam like a machine. Robin wonders if Slade is even human (he has to be) but he never seems to get tired, simply moving into Robin like nothing is the problem. All that Robin can hear from him is steady breathing.

He should be used to this. Robin should know what it’s like to be used underneath Slade’s body, to take him and rock back into it and just let it happen. It shouldn’t hurt so much pounding down his throat, too deep in him for anything, nevermind _Slade. _It shouldn’t hurt somewhere deeper in his soul to have Slade using him like this, but it aches.

_It’s nothing_, Robin forces himself to believe. _It doesn’t matter. _He shuts it down as best he can.

Slade hits the back of his throat, pulls back, Robin drawing in the fastest breath he can through his nose before the shaft is sheathed in him back to the balls. His lungs burn, Slade seeming to take sadistic pleasure in forcing him to save up air like water on a desert island.

The tang is in his mouth. That means . . . means Slade is about to come, make Robin swallow it, and Robin chokes a little on him. Slade groans, thrusts against the pressure, jerks Robin’s head so he gags again. His eyes roll back in the dark, agony circling his throat with helpless aching. _Please just finish_.

He doesn’t want Slade to finish in him, never wants the heat and filth of it, but he will either way. Robin just wants him to go _quicker_—

Robin pushes his muscles in around Slade, pushing his tongue up and wanting to sob as it settles along the shaft, moving amateurishly. It’s skin, sweating and harsh, Robin’s tongue flicking along it with no idea what he aims for as long as it’s all over _soon_. He can feel hair under his tongue at the very tip, at his mouth, and it’s filthy and disgusting but that’s Robins’ life now, every last bit of it. It moves, jerking along Robin’s tongue, the tang growing stronger. Something trickles down Robin’s cheek, a tear, from the gagging or the fear of what’s going to happen he can’t properly tell.

“Are you _enjoying _you sucking my cock?” Slade laughs, Robin sobbing onto him without his say-so, still clenching down on it with his tongue to make it somehow easier, even if it feels awful, if he feels filthy, if he knows he’s complicit in Slade’s abuse.

As if anyone is going to know, or care, or learn. This is something Robin is doing because he has to make it stop, and the shame is his, because even if he is inviting it . . . it would be happening anyways.

No matter what.

It moves, slamming back, and then it’s harder and rougher and plowing over Robin’s tongue.

“I think you—_are_,” Slade murmurs. He yanks Robin’s head up, pulling him closer, moving in and out, balls against Robin’s chin so hard he can hear it aloud and would cringe if Slade wasn’t so deep in him he couldn’t think, let alone move. His tongue curls.

Suddenly he can taste it, spreading over his tongue and burning the back of his throat, hotter than the brutal use Slade’s already brought him. It tastes of salt and bitter and something only Slade, horrible and sticky and wrong.

Still he’s grateful, and nonetheless he’s swallowing desperately as best he can around the head of Slade’s cock, feeling it slide hot down his throat and push over his buds, sending the taste straight to his brain. There’s more on top of that, and another bit emptied into him, and Robin’s choking on it as Slade slips out of him with a disgusting sound. Cum and saliva dribbles across Robin’s front, across his thin blankets, Slade rubbing the last of the filth off of his cock.

Robin swallows desperately, remembering so vividly being knelt in front of Slade, the dirt on his lips and the burning in his face as he cleaned it up with his tongue, Slade’s grin above him as visible as if he wasn’t out of sight. Something warm trickles down his face.

The rough pad of Slade’s finger brushes against it, prying Robin’s loose, panting mouth open to press it against him. It’s a tang, and Robin realizes it’s cum and not tears, licking it off Slade’s finger with exhausted obedience.

“Good boy,” Slade murmurs. His hand is calloused against Robin’s cheek, the top bit of it in his hair. It trails out of the side of his lip, saliva slicking Robin’s face. Robin doesn’t dare move, the warmth of it strange against his flushed cheek. It’s not cruel, not like the bruises that litter his body, simply . . . observational, as if Slade takes pleasure in looking at him in that one icy eye. The finger rubs his cheek, Robin staring up at the white ceiling and wondering when he’d opened his eyes to see Slade’s sinister face looking down at him. The hand doesn’t feel bad, simply . . . foreign. A kind of non-harm coming from Slade that Robin doesn’t understand, doesn’t trust.

It’s gone as suddenly as it comes. Slade’s weight lifts off of Robin, the man zipping himself up, doing his belt buckle, all as easily and casually as if he’d just been pissing.

Robin hates the comparison, and shuts it out of his mind as soon as he possibly can. A hand runs through his hair that’s not his own, the shadow rising out of him and standing up.

“Get up,” Slade orders. Robin flinches, shooting up in the bed, feeling sick. His mouth tastes of Slade’s filth, and he swears he can feel the warmth in his stomach still tainting him. _Filthy._

So filthy.

He crouches on the edge of the bed, picking up his clothes and dressing as fast as he can. Something flakes on the edge of his lip and he picks it off and flicks it to the ground without noticing it, because he knows what it is.

“Don’t make me do it for you,” Slade snaps. He stands in the doorway, one hand hooked idly into his belt, eye narrowed at Robin.

They’re going to train after this, Robin’s throat still aching so much he doesn’t know how well he could speak if he thought Slade wouldn’t hit him for it. He’s not even allowed to slip into sleep to get out of this, and Slade . . . will probably have him again. Maybe. If Robin’s unlucky.

He wants to cry, but the tears that stain his cheeks are still old.


	21. XXI

Robin’s knees ache from the bruising that comes with kneeling so often—or, more likely, being thrown down on them so roughly. He’s pinned up against the wall by Slade halfway through the sparring session, pushed to the ground, his nose pinched by Slade.

And that’s that. He’s gagging him down, wiping the tears from the reflex off his face on his hands and knees. Slade’s staff is at his throat the _second _he finishes.

“Too slow to recover,” Slade chastises. “You think your enemy is going to wait for you to tie your shoelaces?”

The eye looks like it might expect an answer. Robin shakes his head with quick, scared jerks, getting to his feet. The knives come up in front of him, so quick he barely notices. This he’s allowed to defend from, Slade’s physical beatings under the guise of training. Unless Slade thinks he’s actually making Robin _better_.

The clang echoes through the air.

Slade almost always comes for him in the evenings, pressing him down with barely a word or any acknowledgement at all. Using him like an object.

That’s okay, Robin thinks traitorously. _I can be an object. Just . . . please leave me alone. Please finish quickly. _And then Robin can turn over and go to sleep, like a coward running from his reality.

From the eking, horrifying thing that lingers on the edge of his mind—from the truth he doesn’t know how to understand or comprehend.

_Forever_.

Forever is a long time. Forever with Slade is incomprehensible, unimaginable. Forever without Bruce, without his friends, with nobody else but the man whose eye rakes over him like he’s nothing but meat and who fucks him like he’s the same. Robin didn’t think he knew how bad things could get. He was a stupid, stupid child. A stupid, idiotic fool just like Slade says he is who deserved _everything _he got for his failure. For his dead friends.

* * *

_The mountains form heavy, night-winged shadows that spot the landscape like an animal’s natural markings. Camouflage, from something unmentionable that lurks above, but really just for Robin. He sneaks in between them, ducking only into the light when he has to in order to get to the next shadow. The grass is wet beneath his feet. He moves as softly as he can, understanding it to be imperative to his mission. The thought of being seen sends a shiver down his spine._

_Robin looks up to make sure nothing is watching him, catching sight of the mountains—they’re not mountains, really, even as they tower. They’re much smaller, and he can see the top. Robin looks down at his feet to see that he’s walking among gravestones. These, he realizes, are simply the larger memorials for the more important deceased. It makes sense to him as he ducks between their shadows again, shivering in the cool air. The sun shines, but it’s a cold, careless light that sends the hair on his arms prickling._

_Robin lingers in it a second too long. He feels himself grow hot, burning, ducking into the darkness at the last second—_

_But he knows it has to be too late._

_The huge memorials, statues, slowly begin to creak. Stone dirt rolls down their forms like rain as they shift agonizingly slowly, like mountains come to life. Pebbles avalanche from the moving joints, all of them turning._

_Turning towards _Robin_._

_He’s melting into the shadows—like he’s been trained to do, to hide, losing himself to the darkness. Safety, obscurity. But the light . . . follows him, piercing through the shadow and coming at him like a knife. Robin’s left in stark light, the heat on his skin scalding and screaming at his nerves in pain._

_The statues are in the light too, but their faces are cut in stark lines of white illumination and the darkest of shadows, the dark places where the sun does not reach somehow too cruel and sharp to be facsimiles. They’re angry at him, they’re coming for him—Robin knows this, so his gaze is jerking around with the desperation of one who is purely terrified. It’s only until he looks back at the collection that he realizes—_

_Robin knows them. He recognizes them, the four of them. They’re so familiar he could trace their faces blindfolded. His team. The Titans are here, in mountainous monuments of earth and stone. There was a word for those kind of beings, wasn’t there? Robin can’t find it, mind slower than it should be._

_“Robin.” Raven is the first to speak and her voice sounds like age old stone personified, dirt falling from her lips as the friction of metal on metal shreds away in a sharp cacophony. It should be screaming, meaningless noise, but instead it creates words. The other faces twitch and creak and turns towards him, Robin feeling trapped between the stone humans he knows are watching him. Judging him._

_Except they aren’t humans. They aren’t even alive. They are just memorials, people immortalized in stone because they _died_. The grave beneath Raven spells her name out in hard, gothic print, and below that lies a body._

_“You have killed us,” Raven says, and she doesn’t sound angry—just sorrowful, like a siren song. Loneliness in her voice, sadness in her creaking limbs._

_Robin’s breath is caught in his chest, immovable. It is like lead in his lungs, like _dirt. _He feels as dead as the people below him in the ground, lungs decaying and filling with soil and plants and bugs. “I—”_

_“Look at us,” Beast Boy rasps, smaller than Raven but still staring down at Robin from a great height. Robin stares up at him, his eyes bloodshot, anger in his posture._

_“Why have you left us, Robin?” Star asks. It should be soft—the words _sound_ soft, heartbroken and plaintive. Instead, it rings throughout the graveyard, making the shadows shiver along with the rest of the Titans. Something inside Robin burns, screams._

_“I didn’t! Haven’t!” Robin insists. He’s shivering, staring up at them. They can’t be dead. His friends can’t be dead—all of them, dead, unthinkable and awful and filling him with horror._

_“You sided with Slade over us,” Cyborg accuses. Robin flinches away, trying to bite his lip or clench his jaw to make it more bearable when he hears it. Cy is the tallest, the oldest. Maybe he should have been in charge, been the leader. Then maybe they would’ve all been alive now. That way Robin couldn’t have ruined everything._

_“You don’t understand!” Robin insists. “I had to! I still care about you! I can’t let you die!”_

_“Like you let me die?” Raven says, and her voice sounds like the wind through a hollow cave, mournful and eerie until it fades away into nothingness. Her eyes glow a sickly red, mouth opening to say more but crimson light pours out of it. The stone face twists into a mask of agony, neck jerking back to stare at the sky. The light streams upwards like a signal, pushing at her seams, cracking her layers._

_Robin is screaming, but she is too paralyzed to move._

_Slowly, Robin frozen in place more stone than his friends are, she . . . melts away, like the last lines of a song fading out into the world. It’s right in front of him, right in front of his face, his fault._

_“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers._

_“Was it really an accident?” Gar is right next to her, in Robin’s line of vision again. He’s smaller, eyes his regular green. Robin stares, eyes wide, and he knows with a horrible, inescapable inevitability what is going to happen next._

_“No,” Robin begs, “please!”_

_Gar’s head tilts, like the strings that have been holding his impossible body up have now been cut. His eyes pierce into Robin, but the light grows dimmer. A waterfall cascades to the ground, blood down his lips and chin and the front of his uniform, staining it red. The thing becomes a river, the gravestones small dams in the red waste. The mouth opens only to spew more of it, flooding it. Robin looks down._

_His hand is clenched around the blade, and the blade is buried in Beast Boy’s chest._

_“What did you do to me?”_

“What did you do to me?”

**“What did you do to me?”**

Robin wakes up with a start, feeling as if he’s just been hit with a cattle prod. The sheets cling to his naked body like a second skin, glued there by the cold sweat pouring off of it. There is no light in the room, only varying shades of void blackness. The only sound in the room is Robin’s panting. The breathing stays deep, Robin’s hands fisting in the sheets as he tries to pull air into his lungs as much as he can. Something hot trickles down his face. Tears.

_What did you do to me?_

Robin doesn’t know. He can barely imagine himself, even in a different, more ridiculous world, holding that blade. Robin _remembers _seeing it slicked and dripping blood but it doesn’t register, like a scene from a video game. Just as real. Just as impactful.

Except it _is _real. The unthinkable, unknowable, really did happen. All of the horrible things that have been inflicted on him—no, that Robin’s _done_, from give in to Slade to beg him to let himself be pushed to the ground, to _killing_ one of his best friend.

_Robin_.

A joke of a word, of a title, of a name. Eight-year-old Richard Grayson had given it to himself, still soaked in the remains of his parents, staring up at a legend of a man. It had been something to give hope, meaning, life. To save, to help the people he couldn’t.

The tears are hot and they’re not stopping. The sob that’s wrenched out of his chest isn’t childish, isn’t one of simple pain. It’s of the agony of it all, of everything, like he’d swallowed a barbed fishhook and now it’s being yanked out with no grace at all, burning every little bit of Robin’s insides and throat as it comes up. The barbs dig into his throat, run it raw, and then there’s a second on and a third one and a fourth yanked out of his throat and the teary blood is covering his hands. It’s hot, it drips between his fingers, and it’s just like Beast Boy.

Robin’s fist slams hard into the wall; he doesn’t even notice himself turning, only feels the pain radiating up through his muscles and vibrating in his bones. Most of it is in his knuckles—used to crimefighting, not used to slamming into cement. Blood drips down between his fingers.

Robin slams it into the wall again. It burns more this time, bone closer to the surface and already cut skin shredding against the wall. He knows there must be blood on it by now, like the kind that drips between his fingers. He can almost smell it. The whole hand aches, down to the wrist, the shock still reverberating through his arm. Robin shakes it out a little, but that just jostles it, makes it hurt more. He stares at where his hand would be if it wasn’t so perfectly black. He could hit the wall again, make it hurt more, but suddenly he lacks the motivation or desire to do it at all. Instead, he’s picking up the sheets to air out the sweat between them—getting blood on them, most likely, but Slade does that sometimes when he fucks him. Blood . . . and other things. Naturally.

His hand goes to his neck, and for half a second Robin doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Not until his fingers land on the cold metal of his collar. Fingers close around it without really understanding why they do. It reminds him, at least, that he is alive and he is real. This is his reality, not the dreamworld that haunts his nightmares.

Robin’s dropping off to sleep soon enough, the exhaustion that’s pushing through his brain due to his lack of sleep.

* * *

The next day, Slade doesn’t feed him. It’s not a pointed thing, simply a skipped meal—Robin’s never taken to the place where he dines, never instructed to eat some of the disgusting paste that Slade feeds him. (“Military rations,” Slade tells him. “You’ll learn to like it.”)

“Can I . . . Aren’t you going to feed me?” Robin asks hesitantly, pausing at the door. He makes sure his tone isn’t offensive or aggressive, especially sure that it won’t provoke Slade to take any action. He seems uninterested in fucking Robin tonight; Robin wants to keep it that way.

“No,” Slade says shortly, carelessly. He turns to leave, a hand palming the door control.

“Why not?” Robin dares.

Slade turns, eye cold. “You’re weak. You need to learn endurance. You’ll go without until I decide you’re done.”

“I didn’t—I don’t . . .” Robin hesitates. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For . . . whatever it was I did,” Robin mutters, eyes staring down at the pale floor, at Slade’s boots set in the middle of it. “I’m sorry.”

A bark of a laugh, Robin’s head jerking upwards. “It’s not a punishment. It’s training. Didn’t the bat ever train you in deprivation?”

Robin doesn’t know if he’s expected to answer Slade or not. Bruce had trained him how to hold his breath, how to meditate if locked in an airtight space, how to cope with extreme temperatures—but not like this. Robin almost doubts Alfred would’ve let him get away with not feeding him.

“I don’t know,” Robin says softly, because it’s all he can think to say.

Slade rolls his eye, turning, Robin watching his black shadow disappear behind the door. A hand presses on the side of it in the dark, tapping at the wall. There should be wires beneath it, ones that let the door move open and shut on command. There’s not any way to get to them, though, or Robin might be able to rewire them. Maybe he could steal some food from Slade. He stays there for too long, and he has to fumble his way back to the bed in darkness on just his memory of the room.

Robin can feel himself getting hungry already, like a phantom ache in expectancy of what’s to come. With how hard Slade runs him down, with the vicious training sessions, he’s not sure how he’s supposed to function. Maybe he’ll just pass out on the training floor one day of it and Slade will realize the idea is stupid. That’s unlikely. Is this a punishment? Is Slade lying to him about his intentions? Robin’s been waiting for the shoe to drop on how he’d betrayed Slade, completely left him behind, but he hasn’t even been whipped like he was when he fought back against him—and this time was _much_ worse. Maybe Slade’s figured Beast Boy’s death has punished him enough.

As if.

Robin remembers when Raven had died _(my fault) _how Slade had raped him on the cold ground right before. To Slade, there is no such things as _enough _punishment. But . . . he hasn’t hurt Robin yet. This has to be the punishment. Why isn’t Slade telling him? There’s no use in punishing someone if you don’t tell them what it’s for.

Slade doesn’t make any sense.

Either way, for the next days, or weeks, Robin will be going hungry. There is no getting around that. He shudders, drawing the sheets around him. Slade always finds a way to be crueler, to make it all worse. It doesn’t feel like training, it feels like torture, like Robin is being used for Slade’s whims—when he wants to fuck something, when he wants to hurt something, when he wants to make something scream. But if that’s true, why has Slade invested so much time and energy into him? He has better things to do, right? Especially if he’s as well known an assassin as he claims to be.

It seems that no matter how drastically the world changes, Robin’s headache trying to figure Slade out doesn’t. He falls into a shallow sleep with his head aching.

* * *

Robin wakes up before the morning. Before Slade’s morning—even though he hasn’t seen the sun in—

In months. Robin hasn’t seen the sun in months. He must be so pale, even paler than he looks under the neon lights when he looks in the mirror of the bathroom he’s allowed to shower in. Like a ghost. He feels like a ghost, as if the real Robin has died and came back as something less. Something trapped, not allowed to pass on, trapped in some kind of meaningless limbo. Robin shivers. He’s grown smaller in the months, eyes cast at the ground and fed just enough to keep hard, lithe muscle wrapped around his bones like a coat. Someday, he’ll fade away entirely.

_No._

Robin has a _choice_.

For once in the months, he has a choice. The nanobots are gone. In the one time he’d ever seen Slade weak or taken off guard, the nanobots are gone. Robin is a failure of a hero, and he’s failed his friends, but he doesn’t have to _stay_. He should. He deserves it.

But he can’t. Can only think of what Slade might do to him if he tries to escape, but he _knows _what Slade will do to him if he stays here. Keep trying to bend him into what he wants, twisting Robin until he’s unrecognizable.

Robin shivers, wrapping his arms around himself, pulling the sheet with them. His hair’s still wet from sweat, stiffening in longish locks. All he has for now is the fact that Slade will walk in soon, and fuck him again.

He still hurts from the last few nights. Robin’s throat is so sore that he has to drink down every bit of the water Slade gives him just to not have his throat hurt. It’s chafed raw, and he still bleeds sometimes on the sheets from his ass, but Slade keeps using him anyways. Robin bites his lip thinking about what Slade will do to him, a hand rubbing at his throat and wincing. Why this? Why him, why here, why Slade doing something like this?

It’s meaningless questions. Robin’s learned that they don’t help, after years spent begging the world to tell him why his parents were snatched away from him so violently. There’s nothing here to help him, no reason to it at all. Just heroes and villains and failures.

And the fact that right now, right here, Robin doesn’t want to endure the pain anymore. He’s already bruised and panging from the training earlier today. It hurts. Robin wants it to stop. But there’s no way to help it, Slade’s too thick and vicious and never lets up.

Unless—

Robin remembers something—the first time Slade had _had _him, on the floor of the throne room. He’d slipped fingers in beforehand, making sure that he’d be able to fit in him. It makes Robin sick to think about. And yet . . . he twitches. It hurts. It all hurts so very, very much. It’s a better alternative, maybe, something to make the pain less. Robin’s fingers shiver as he licks his fingers—the middle and the pointer, making sure the nails are bitten down to the nub. That’ll have to do. Hesitantly, teeth biting harder into his lower lip and turning it red with blood rushing to it, Robin spreads his legs in the blessed dark. He pulls the blanket over himself still, self-conscious. Slade could step in at any moment, and the thought of him finding it makes Robin sick to his stomach. He has to hurry, because he doesn’t want it to hurt anymore than it does. No matter how pathetic he feels now.

There’s still a little blood between his thighs as he pulls at his rim, staring in the dark at the opposite wall—he can feel the muscle pulling at his fingers. Something is slick down there and Robin doesn’t try to find out what it is, instead slowly slipping a finger partways inside. Past the first ring of muscle, joined by a second. It aches, and he knows that whatever bloody wounds he already has, they’re opened up by now. Robin makes a face, grits his teeth, pushing the digits in _more. _It feels just as uncomfortable as when Slade does it. This time, though, it’s more bearable, because it’s not Slade. Robin’s fingers are considerably smaller, too.

There is nothing in the dark, so he just has to go by the feeling in the tips of his fingers. He pries inwards, still aching, but . . . gentler, than it would be. Easier. He gasps slightly as he slips past the second ring of muscle, taking a second to let his fingers rest inside of him, pulling his legs apart further. It’s dry and painful because there’s nothing to make it less so except copious amounts of saliva, but it feels feathery-light compared to Slade’s brutal invasions. Robin’s thighs shiver as he presses his fingers in further, feeling his muscles clench in halfway to the first knuckle, and then further, in aching parts of him only Slade has ever been. It’s not nice, but it’s not as unpleasant as it would be otherwise.

Robin scissors his fingers wider, muscles straining against his insides. It hurts, and he feels the telltale shiver of air through him. That’s okay. That makes sense—that’s happened to him before. It’s what happens when Slade slips out of him, leaving him slick. He presses in further, pushing himself wider. Spreading open, but this time there’s nothing to force him further or invade his body. He’s almost all the way down his finger and Robin’s shocked at himself, at how easily he’s gone in. But that’s what’s been happening to him, his body slowly learning to take whatever’s cruelly pushed into it by what Slade wishes. This isn’t too bad. It’s just Robin.

Just trying to make it hurt less.

Robin spreads his legs, crooking his fingers so he gets himself at a better angle. He just has to move a little more, and—

Oh.

_Oh._

Something is slipping from his mouth, without Robin realizing it. He doesn’t know what the sound is, twitching his fingers once more as they hit something _strange_. This isn’t the uncomfortable feeling of something in him—though there’s still that—it’s a hotness that spreads through his body in an almost familiar way. His forehead crinkles, fingers pressing further into himself with a twitch of his legs and a hiss of air through his teeth. The heat spreads—

Robin feels his cock twitch in arousal too late. His fingers crook, yank themselves out of loose-ish muscle with the rim tugging at his knuckles. The tips hit the place again, feeling no different to his fingers than the surrounding muscle, but it makes something inside him ache. He can’t see between his legs, but he knows that he must be half hard. From _that_? From—something prodding inexpertly at his _ass_? Even if it was him? Nobody told Robin that was possible. All he’s done before is stroke his cock, and that worked just fine, and now . . .

He hadn’t known that would happen. It wasn’t even that much, but Robin hasn’t touched himself since he got here, because he was unable to calm down enough to think of Star—because he thought he would be out soon—and after Slade . . . he just couldn’t. A hand cautiously settles on his own shaft—almost hard. That’s not good. That’s not good, because even if he’s looser—

Slade will be here soon. Robin can’t let him see this. It’s his, something from his own privacy, and even worse—he knows it would prompt Slade into doing something worse. He always takes an interest in Robin’s body. This can’t be his next bit. Robin leans back, bringing blankets closer to his body. He thinks of how scared he is, how much he wants people to come back for him, of the pain and the torture Slade’s put him through. That makes him scared.

It’s quiet enough, in the nothingness, that Robin can hear the heavy, booted footsteps in the hall outside. Every muscle in him twitches, goes tense. He has to calm himself, redirect the energy from other places. Make sure it all works out.

The door opens. The light cuts in like a sword, and Robin can’t help shielding his face and blinking his eyes at Slade. Clothes are in the man’s hand, as always. They’re dropped unceremoniously on the floor. Slade’s one eye surveys Robin, the darkness of the suit he wears making him look like he’s half blending in to the darkness, even as the light gleams off the hair staining his shoulders. He doesn’t move for several seconds. Robin glances at the clothes, wrapping the sheets around him and moving to step off the bed—

“No,” Slade scolds, almost amused. “You know better.”

Robin stops instantly. Slowly, he lets himself back down on the bed, shivering. _Please use my mouth_, he begs Slade, hoping that he’s not hard any more. Robin shivers a little, feeling sick as Slade approaches. He lets himself stare up at the ceiling, feeling fingers fist in the sheets and turning to white-knuckles. _Please don’t find it. Please don’t find it. _Slade’s weight is on the bed, Robin’s nervous eyes flicking to him as he moves—

Taking the blanket off, running a rough, calloused hand up Robin’s stomach, pinning down his chest. Robin squirms, tries not to move, prays that it’s been long enough but he _knows _it couldn’t be because he thinks he can feel himself there, between his thighs—

The laugh tells him everything he needs to know, a bark of something viciously cruel and utterly genuine. Robin shuts his eyes tight, turning his head away from Slade.

“Excited already, pet? A little premature, aren’t we?” Slade’s thumb taps at Robin’s collarbone, hands pressing his thighs aside. Robin just shuts his eyes, tenses up, tries to ignore everything. He’s still half-laughing, Robin can sense it from behind his eyes.

Robin can feel his face burning, trying to push himself off to the side. He doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want to know. This is so _humiliating_, to be here, to have Slade see—

“Were you touching yourself?” Slade murmurs, half-laughing. “Were you thinking of my cock fucking your ass while you fingered yourself, boy? Answer me.”

Robin shakes his head emphatically. “No. No!” He feels sick. As if he would—as if he’d ever get pleasure out of anything Slade did to him. “I was—I didn’t want it to hurt,” he admits shamefully. “I wanted to make it . . . easier.”

“For me or for you?” Slade muses. “Still.” A hand slips between Robin’s thighs, Robin’s face twisting into something as he tries to bear it. Fingers, much thicker and longer and _worse _than Robin’s, scissor him open once again. He feels loose, open for Slade, and sick at the thought. “Perhaps . . .”

The fingers curl. Robin gasps slightly, staring up at the ceiling. Slade is going at that _spot_, that place in him that causes feelings he can’t control. Far from Robin’s fingers prodding at it, Robin can feel the pads of Slade’s fingers slowly, torturously drag across his insides. The distressed noises that echo from his lips are unstoppable. “M-master—n-no—”

“Doesn’t it feel _good_?” Slade murmurs. “This is what you wanted.”

Robin shakes his head, legs spreading automatically to lessen the pain. “I didn’t want it to hurt! I’m sorry! Please stop!”

With one last horrible drag that sends Robin’s cock twitching without his consent, his own _body _at Slade’s easy command. It would’ve gone down if Slade hadn’t decided to mess with him, with fingers that somehow know what they’re _doing. _The shame washes over him, of begging, but most of all letting Slade see him like this. How had it happened? How is he responding so easily to Slade’s touches?

Robin hates himself.

That’s nothing new.

“Tell me what you want instead,” Slade says softly. His eye gleams. He _wants_.

Robin shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to see. “Just fuck me,” he whispers, so low that it can barely be heard. “Please.”

Slade makes a sound low in his throat, and then he’s on him, Robin’s legs spreading and folding and a small groan falling from his lips as Slade’s member is in him, mercifully painful, his own cock mercifully ignored.

* * *

The days pass.

Robin starves.


	22. XXII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha :/ THIS IS ALL MY FAULT im sorry for being dumb af and forgetting :/ embarrassing for me. thanks to blue and yamada and Q and like three commenters for LETTING ME KNOW . . . . i s2g.
> 
> one of the reasons it was late was because i really wanted to answer every comment on the last chapter. i know i'm not as good at answering comments, and i'm sorry about when i don't get to it. i really love y'all so much and i read every comment i promise <33333. i hope this next chapter feeds ur robinpain needs :)

The  _ crack  _ of knuckles echoes throughout the room. Someday, once, that might have been at home for Robin—something he knew, he thrived in. Now, it sends him stumbling to the side, holding his face and hissing through his teeth. Slade’s cold eye takes him in.

“Am I wasting my fucking time on you?” he snarls.

Robin shakes his head. “No! No, I’ll do better.” His face aches. He hopes that this time nothing is bleeding. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Slade grunts. “Do better.” He stomps to the side, gestures at the target. Robin’s aching muscles tense and retract, getting ready to go once again at the move. It hurts. Everything hurts. But it will hurt more if he doesn’t try again.

Robin takes a deep breath, pulling as much air as he can into his body, his blood, before starting forward. His feet pound on the pad, vibrations going straight to his head, spiking like a vice. Muscles wind up, tensing, as Robin calls on every last little bit of strength he has to push himself through the air. He’s pushed off the ground, leg coming around to let the vicious kick emerge.

The last thing he sees before a strange, fuzzy feeling overtakes his consciousness is his bare foot speeding towards the target.

* * *

The first thing Robin becomes aware of when consciousness comes back to him is the warm air in his ear. He blinks a little, eyelids dry and body strangely warm. He’s drifting out of a faded darkness. Something’s against him—a heartbeat, Robin barely able to feel it, but the _ba-bum ba-bum _thrums through some deep part of him, too slow and steady to match pace with his own. Then what’s in his ear must be breath. The warmth is fond, and Robin just sits there barely aware of where he is, noticing it.

“Awake, pet?” Slade grumbles. Robin’s eyes jerk wide, a spasm of a flinch going through his body as he sits straight up. He’s on Slade’s lap, legs thrown across Slade’s thighs as he’s pressed against the man’s chest—because Slade’s arms are in front of him, tapping away at a screen that he’s working on. Robin looks around reflexively for any means of escape, any room to maneuver—but he gives up before he’s done, realizing that of course there isn’t. He could crane his head up to look at Slade, but that might give him _ideas_.

“Yes,” Robin says softly. A pause. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’ll do better next time.”

Slade grunts. He seems preoccupied with something he’s doing, Robin glancing at it. It’s coordination of movements for some kind of troops. A lot of them. More than a few, more than Robin had imagined. He has to get the information to Batman, to his team—

To the team he failed? To the team that isn’t _his_? To the team he doesn’t deserve, doesn’t get, is barely still there? What kind of hero is Robin?

He’s no hero at all.

Robin _knows _that.

But the nanobots—they’re still gone. After all this, all this hell, they’re gone. Robin has a reason to escape now, one that’s not pure selfishness. He can warn them. Robin can do _one _good thing. Can’t he? He thinks . . . maybe. He’s failed so much, brought so much _ruin _even though he was just trying to do the right thing. Be a hero. Save people, make sure everything turned out _alright_. But that’s all lost now. Nothing will ever be alright again, and Robin will never be a hero again. If he ever was.

But maybe he can do one good thing.

He just has to get out of here. Robin is thankful Slade is above him, because this way the man can’t see where Robin is looking. The numbers on the screen aren’t hard to read _or _digest, especially with someone of Robin’s training. It takes him seconds to memorize them, and he’s thankful to Bruce that his memory is so good—he might have missed some otherwise, because now Slade is tapping the screen off and sighing slightly. 

Disappointedly.

A shiver goes up Robin’s spine.

Fingers grasp at his . . . wrist? Slade raises it to his eyelevel, taking in the skinny bone and lean muscle. “Forgot how fucking small you were,” he grumbles to himself. Robin prays that means that he’ll be fed again soon. He’s tired of going without, finding himself wishing for the grey gruel Slade had provided him with before. Last night, he’d even dreamed of it—welcome, instead of the horror that the night’s wings usually brought to him. It’s true that his skinny frame has only grown skinnier, but it’s entirely Slade’s fault. How could he _not _notice when he . . . well. Robin squirms a little, uncomfortable at the thought.

Slade’s fingers tap at the screen, pulling up another set of numbers. This one doesn’t have labels attached to it, but Robin files them away studiously in his memory anyways. He has to be helpful, has to at least pretend that he can be a hero all over again.

A hand lands on his hip. It’s rough, casual, the other one easily flicking over figures. Robin’s eyes widen and he has to stop his breath from catching. _No. Shit._

“I can—I can try again,” he offers weakly. Slade’s hand drifts to his thigh, where it looks obscenely big, pale hand on the pitch black fabric. It’s warm, and huge.

“No,” Slade says.

Robin just stares to the side, at Slade’s muscled arms, or the dark floor of the room. He just has to bear it. It never seems to get easier, but he knows it has, from when he screamed and cried when Slade first had him, from when he couldn’t even imagine Slade fucking him as a possibility.

Now, Slade’s rough hand slides between Robin’s thighs. Robin half-tries to squeeze them closed but Slade just slips past the resistance, hand grabbing at his crotch. Robin twitches, can feel Slade’s thick fingers against his soft cock. This is what he gets for getting hard, for trying to make it hurt less—more punishment. Slade doing something unexpected, unwanted. It makes it harder to handle that way, he knows, much harder. Robin can feel his shaft caught in Slade’s fingers, roughly groping him in a way that seems to bring only Slade pleasure and then the fingers move. Robin has to stifle a little gasp of surprise and pain. Maybe there’s pleasure there, a kind of bodily reaction that Robin can’t stop no matter how much he tries—but if there is, it’s pushed under everything else.

Robin tries to squirm out of Slade’s grip but that only makes the hand squeeze around his crotch, around his little cock that seems so small as it’s pulled in Slade’s hand. A hand falls heavy and dangerous on his other thigh and Robin lets himself go limp. This is awful, no good, _wrong_. He can feel something under him, moving and growing and –oh, that’s Slade’s cock. Getting hard off of this, which means—

Robin wants to cry, really and truly. This isn’t what he wanted or expected. It’s almost easy to get used to Slade fucking him in the morning and the evening, but now—he doesn’t know what to do. A hand snakes along his thigh, groping roughly this time at his ass. Slade’s cock still makes him bleed, and Robin twitches in expectation of pain as a hand slips under his pants. Were they made so Slade could so easily paw into them and have his way? It seems like a silly, impractical thing. Something to think about to distract himself from what’s really happening.

Two hands grab Robin’s hips, pulling him up against Slade’s crotch. His heavy erection digging into Robin’s hip, hard and painful and promising of things to come. A hand still pushes down his pants. Robin’s eyes flickers.

“H-here?” he whispers. In the light? So exposed? So anyone could walk in, it feels?

Slade laughs in his ear, bites at it sharply. Robin winces. “I want to have you here.” And Robin knows that’s that. What Slade wants with him—happens. The only thing left to do is to ignore his body. It belongs to Slade anyways, practically. Robin can ignore this.

His pants slip down to his thighs, Slade digging into his ass hard enough to bruise. Robin tries to switch off of it, but his movement only makes him rub against Slade’s cock, prompting a low groan from Slade. How hard is he already?

The screen is flicked down. Presumably so Slade can spend all his time fucking his unwilling apprentice, focus allo f his hated and unfortunate attention on Robin. A hand slips under Robin’s ass, unzipping Sldae’s fly. Robin leans forward, eyes shutting. (Just let it happen. Let it happen.) It’s happening, Slade’s cock already slick with precum rubbing between his cheeks and up against his hole. Robin lets out a low groan at the uncomfortable feeling of something so large and hard filling him up, slipping deeper and deeper and deeper until it’s all he can feel in his body and Slade’s balls are flush against his body. Slade in him. What else is new?

“Move,” Slade demands, rough and aroused in his ear. Robin’s forehead creases.

“Wh-what? I don’t . . . don’t understand.”

Slade sighs, an irritable thing that tells Robin he will probably be in trouble later. Fingers wrap around Robin’s hips and he’s only given a few seconds before he’s jerked _up_. He can feel his hole clinging to Slade’s cock, painful friction as they rub against each other.

Robin twitches, winces. Then he’s pulled down, Slade purposefully _slamming _into him so hard and cruel that Robin half-yells. But there’s nowhere to go, impaled as he is on Slade, so much that he feels the sharp tip of it probably reaches halfway up through his body. Slicing into him, cutting organs and pushing his muscle an bone aside to make room for Slade in his body. It’s vicious, engorged, monstrous as it’s slammed once again into him with the help of gravity. Slade’s fingers bruise his hips blue and purple. He’s yanked up again. Robin feels like a toy, vividly now, pushed up and down on Slade’s cock, every thrust making him gulp or gasp, seeming to displace the him that is inside him in favor of Slade’s cruel intrusion.

It goes on like that, for several minutes. Slade’s panting in his ear, a rough, wet sound. He used to make more noise before, Robin remembers—say more things. Now, he just works Robin’s hips up and down until . . . he feels the wet heat right when he expects it, spilling deep into him and making him twitch with the uncomfortableness of it. It feels wrong. It always feels wrong. That has never changed, and Robin thinks that it probably never will.

The day when it starts feeling _right_, Slade will have really and truly won. Because Slade can kill his friends, keep him here, but at least—at the _very least_—he won’t get the obedient, adoring pet he seems to want.

Or does he care, when he starts up again with his thrusting? Slade is hard for so long, doesn’t even bother to pause before he plunges into Robin again. This round is left with slick, filthy noises of cum sliding in him. Robin is grateful for it; perverse as it is—because it hurts less, the come slicking his hole so that Slade’s huge cock moves easier. It goes on.

It never ends, not with Slade. It’s all Robin can do to keep himself from jolting too hard, practically bouncing as he is, feeling every jolt inside him. It’s slamming into him, and then he’s falling forward. Slade’s hands don’t hold him much, so he ends up swaying a little, kept up for a few seconds only by the shaft lodged in his body.

Then Slade slams into him again. It touches something, barely, what feels like the head of his cock _brushing _something. It’s gone as soon as it comes, Robin choking down a noise of surprise. He almost coughs, but then he’s being slammed down again, gasping it all out. There’s something brushing against him, again, and it feels horribly wrong. But there’s something else. Always something else.

Robin can’t let this happen.

Not here. Not now. Not while Slade’s cock is so deep in him he thinks it might never come out. He bites his lip, focusing on the pain, focusing on the pain of his body stretching obscenely around Slade’s thick length. Except—it doesn’t hurt. Not as much as it used to. Especially now that there’s cum dripping from it, sliding almost easily in and out as Slade pulls Robin up and down on his cock like a machine. _Don’t his hands ever get tired?_

Robin has never known Slade to get tired. He wonders if he ever does. Logically, yes, but after so long . . . it strains Robin’s brain to think of him as anything but a lurking, cruel master who can do anything. Will do anything. Has the strength to, and never tires, no matter how exhausted and spent Robin is.

Something slips past the same . . . _spot_. Again. And again. It seems to go on forever, being pulled onto Slade’s cock. The man doesn’t get tired, doesn’t finish. And he’s slipping past the spot. It doesn’t feel good but it _burns _in his gut, something that shoots straight up his spine and straight to . . .

His cock.

Is he enjoying this? He can’t be enjoying this, being bounced on Slade’s huge cock like a toy. This doesn’t make sense. Robin doesn’t want this, he’s a _hero_, and his cock _isn’t _stiffening between his legs. Not even a little, not even half hard, he _isn’t_. _Can’t be_.

“P-please,” he begs, “please finish.”

A laugh. Slade’s stubble leaning in to whisper in his ear. “That’s not how this works, boy.”

A pause.

A dangerous pause.

Robin squeezes his thighs together but too late he finds Slade’s hand in between them, pressed against soft flesh. He pushes harder, willing him not to move or see, a humiliating noise slipping from his lips as Slade slams him down once more to the hilt. He swears he can see it in his gut, but he blinks and it’s gone.

Slade’s hand clamps around his crotch. That friction is something too, rubbing along his shaft as Slade roughly palms him. Not rough enough to stop his cock from hardening fully.

“I said you would learn to like it,” Slade whispers.

“I don’t like it!” Robin half-yells, struggling but only succeeding in getting Slade’s hand rougher on his cock, moving slowly up and down, the head of his own small cock rubbing against Slade’s callouses. Then he tilts him, Robin struggling a little, and then he’s fucked again—

Except _this time _his small body comes down on Slade’s cock and the head of it slams into that _thing _inside him that’s horribly betraying him. All he can do is let out a gasp as if he’d been hit, legs going limp on top of Slade’s lap. The electricity burns cruelly inside of him.

A thumb drags itself over the head of his cock, making him hiss. It’s rough and vicious and uncomfortable but he’s still getting _harder_, he can feel it. His eyes shut tight so he doesn’t have to look at Slade’s enormous hand wrapped around him, slowly, agonizingly stroking him.

And then he stops. Robin blinks—and then the hand is on his hip and he’s yanked up again. He’s slammed down again, on that spot, screamingly painful even as it makes him harder.

“Please,” he begs, because this is a new kind of torture he hasn’t encountered yet, one he truly doesn’t understand.

Slade ignores.

Again and again. Pain and pain and pain, Robin biting his lip until the scab bleeds to stop himself from making any kind of noise. He hates this. He can’t be enjoying this. It never seems to end; Slade slamming into him over and over. Robin tries to think of something, anything, but even the sobbing pain of his friends’ deaths can’t stop whatever Slade is insistent on doing to him. He can feel how hard he’s getting—too hard, rubbing it between his legs, bouncing along with the rest of him and every little gasp he lets out.

It doesn’t end.

It doesn’t end until Robin is screaming and splattering himself all over the front of his shirt, all down his shaking and bare thighs as he sobs, crying at his own humiliation and the sheer pain of being pounded into so roughly.

And even then . . . Slade is still moving in him, softer and softer.

“Did that feel good, pet?” Slade murmurs.

“No,” Robin whispers, and he sniffs.

A hand gropes his spent cock and Robin’s filled with momentary, paralyzing fear before it’s let go of. “Tell the truth, pet.”

“Yes,” Robin lies, and he stares at the part of the room across from him, shuddering on Slade’s cock.

“Good boy,” Slade purrs. And that . . . the sliver of attention, of positive _something_, in the mockery and humiliation and the pain and the sticky come spattered on his thighs—

Robin doesn’t think about that. He’s not thinking about it. He’s thinking about anything else, like how much Slade hurts while buried inside of him.

* * *

Robin’s hurriedly whispering the words to himself. There’s guides to pronunciation in the book, in small, smudged print. He checked when it was printed—almost ten years ago. Out of date, at least a little. Just like Slade, except the man is as sharp as ever, even in his older age. Robin wonders idly how old he is. How _much _older—

He shuts out the thought and goes back to the Russian verbs. _If you can’t even hold a basic fucking conversation_, Slade says, _I’ll have to think up a new way to punish you_.

Robin is tired of being punished. Slade gives him so many books to read and he files them away so easily. It should be so easy. But he feels like every part of him, mind too, is slowly slipping away like wet paper being torn when any pressure is put on it and splattering on the street. That’s how he can’t keep track of the things he read, but it’s not an option, because he _has _to. Can’t disappoint Slade. That hurts.

Robin is tired of hurting. He wants to avoid it as much as he can. Out of the corner of his eye, he glances up at Slade. The perspective is horribly skewed because he sits cross legged at Slade’s feet, leaning against the throne between his legs. He hates being between his legs, but there’s nowhere else to rest his back. He’s forced to make do. Making do is okay. He can do that. Robin thinks he can do that.

Slade isn’t doing anything. He doesn’t seem upset, or interested, just busy. Good. That’s how Robin likes him, because he’s less threatening that way. Less likely to rape him, less likely to hurt him.

“Eyes on the books, or you’ll never learn a _thing_,” Slade snaps at him. Robin half-jumps, shoulder brushing against Slade’s calf as he stares hurriedly back at the Russian. Quick, remember the verbs, the conjugation. In case Slade tries to quiz you.

* * *

If there’s anything Robin learns, it’s that Slade’s a morning person.

(It would almost be funny, except that it’s not.)

Sometimes, when he pins him down and bites at his neck, Robin can smell coffee on his breath as he shuts his eyes tight and tries to ignore it all. Sometimes it’s mint toothpaste. Sometimes bacon, and Robin wonders where he’s getting it, because he’s never fed anything that good. As if Slade would give _him _anything that good. Or anything at all. Sometimes, he wishes Slade would kiss him, so he could just get a _taste _of what he’s been eating.

But he won’t ask for it.

Slade flips him over and starts again and Robin’s cheek is pressed into the soft sheets. Soft—not as soft as he remembers Titans Tower being.

He doesn’t want to think about that, jerked forward by every snap of Slade’s hips. But he has to. Because now, he has a chance to get out of this. One he can’t waste, can’t forget. A hand grabs his collar and he’s pulled back, the sick noise of flesh on flesh as Slade drives into him once more.

Robin’s stopped crying when Slade finishes inside him. Or down his throat. These days it’s all he gets to eat. Some days he’s so parched it’s actually a relief from Slade’s rough use of his throat. That makes him sick.

“Get up,” Slade says, and of course he looks as if nothing happens while his come leaks out of Robin onto the bed.

He lets himself a soft whimper into the sheet before putting his feet on cold granite and continuing again. _You can get out. You can get away_. It’s a promise, to himself. A prayer, too, though to who he doesn’t know.

* * *

Slade fucks him again on the training floor. Robin is so hungry, starving, so tired. All he can think about is getting something to eat, letting the weakness take over him. He thinks he cried when he was asked to go through exercises for a third time, told what a disappointment he was. But not when Slade took him. The latter is much more common. He can take it.

An elbow slams as hard as it can into the side of the door, right into the concrete. Robin comes away hissing, blood leaking from his arm. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it’s okay. It’s just a flesh would, as Slade would call it. Nothing to worry about. Robin feels so hollow inside, it’s almost a surprise that his hand comes away wet and red. He’d half expected to be sliced open only to reveal no veins at all, no organs or muscles. Just Slade’s come, most likely.

Was that a joke? Robin can’t tell anymore. He’s not sure if he’s deranged enough yet to be making jokes about Slade raping him. Fingers fist as he shivers, heading to the bed. Slade’s finished with him, he guesses, which means he can sleep with only a short detour to clean what he can out of himself.

He turns. The lights haven’t gone out yet, and for once, Robin is grateful to Slade for keeping them on so he doesn’t have to fumble his way back to the bed. He doesn’t mind the dark, exactly, but slamming into the hard, cold walls hurts.

There’s something by the door. Robin stares, taking a step closer to look. It’s barely anything, just a small, tiny indent. The shape of the tip of his elbow, where the hard bone had connected with the wall. _What_? It should be concrete. It has always been concrete, ever since Robin could recall, but this is . . . a new place. With new rules?

He moves over to touch it. There’s barely any give to it. Robin can’t figure out what it’s made of—it seems hard on the outside but softer on the inside, and his elbow—now bruising, almost bleeding, just a little—had made a dent in it. Cracked the thing open.

Small, thin fingers dig into the hole. Plaster comes away in his fingers and almost feverishly, something in his soul that he hasn’t felt in so long, in too long, in a ridiculously long time, he almost doesn’t recognize the feeling. Robin doesn’t dare put a name to it, because he feels that if he does, he’ll jinx it. Ruin this for himself as he has ruined everything else.

But: the fact remains.

The nanobots are out of his friends. There is _no way _Slade was faking that, the surprise and the anger and fury on his face. Robin’s seen that before. He wasn’t lying. Couldn’t’ve been.

Right?

He isn’t going to do anything with the names he _knows_, right? With Robin’s name? He hasn’t said he would. He can’t mean to . . . find them and kill them? But . . . if he could just do that,

Right. Right, of course, because if he hadn’t, Robin’s friends would be dead. He doesn’t bluff. Robin learned that with Raven, with his own stupidity, but now the only life left on the line is _his_.

And . . .

Living . . . might not be worth it, here. It might be better to simply fade away if Slade kills him in a fit of rage, dying under the man’s boot. He wouldn’t be remembered as a hero, instead as a murderer of his friend. But he would be gone. There would be no more of _this_, no more of getting fucked and getting used and crying when he doesn’t understand what Slade says to him in Russian. There would just be a void-black sleep, like the sleep that’s beckoning Robin to his bed.

He stares at the dent in the wall.

_It will be there tomorrow_. He has to take this slow. Save his energy—to . . . what? What, even? To pry through the whole wall?

_If I have to. It’s better than this._

Anything is better than this.

* * *

Robin wakes up and his stomach hurts so much he can’t move for a second. He feels as if something in him is gnawing himself alive, and he has to put a hand to his empty stomach to make sure that Slade’s cock isn’t still buried in him. And growing teeth.

But no. It’s simply the hunger; almost better, because this he knows how to endure, and almost worse, because it will last a long, long time. Until Slade decides that he deserves it. How long will that be? Is this another test? Another anything?

Robin from before would fight this. He would roll over and try to find the way to fight against the gnawing, eating, snarling hunger that chokes his throat. He shivers, flinches when the door opens and Slade’s light cuts through.

Robin rolls over and wants to cry. His eyes might actually be wet. Nothing feels _alright_. Nothing has felt alright in a long, long time. Robin can’t exist like this. He can’t. But he doesn’t _have to_. Because now there is hope. And it’s hope that lets his shaking legs up, makes his hand wipe any wetness away as he sniffs and forces himself to get up. Stars burn in front of his eyes, Robin shaking a little as he clings to the edge of the bed, steadying himself.

If Slade is telling Robin to get out of bed, that means that he’s not going to fuck him this morning. Maybe he’ll have Robin suck him off.

The thought makes nausea swell. But it doesn’t go away. Robin shivers, feels something rise in the back of his throat, and then he can’t hold it back. Two seconds before it happens, he realizes it, and he’s jerking himself away from the bed and leaning over the floor. Acid comes up in waves that shake his whole, thin frame, hair hanging down in front of his face. Something clenches on the back of his head and Robin whines low in his throat in despair as acid comes back up again, the only thing left in his stomach—burning water, miserable—puddling around his feet on the floor. The hand clenches in his hair, pulling his head back before he starts shaking and throwing up again.

“Pathetic,” Slade says, as predictable as ever. Robin wants to apologize, but his mouth and lips and throat and tongue seem all frozen, uncomfortable, too-big. Instead he just shivers, feeling his hair fall around his shoulders and burning when he realizes he’s naked. The clothes are rough, but at least they’re clean. Maybe they won’t be at the end of the day, when Robin’s been fighting and been punished and they are covered in sweat and blood, but at least they will be okay for now.

Robin feels as if he’s growing smaller, not just thinner, as he follows after Slade. He can feel his instinct become curling in on himself, hiding from whatever awful thing Slade wants from him next. It’s hard to care, with how hungry and miserable he is, what the damage to his pride will become. His voice is higher, body betraying him every chance he gets. Just like he betrayed his friends.

_Karma_. That’s what Raven would say, if she was still here.

* * *

It goes on. And on and on.

Every nerve is on fire, jittering and shaking. He can barely spar with Slade anymore, because he’s shaking so badly from lack of being fed—it can’t have been long enough to starve him to death. If Slade wanted him dead he would just kill him. Just kill him. That would be enough. He wouldn’t have to go through all this trouble.

The fear is almost worse than the hunger. Slade takes him on the training floor, when he wakes up, makes him crawl between his legs when he’s finished studying. And then again when he goes to bed. Some days Slade is insatiable and Robin is left sorer from his cock than from the paces he’s put through to train him to be a better apprentice. He doesn’t feel like an apprentice. He feels like a slave. Worthless, used, barely needed. Inhuman.

_I will get out of here_. He thinks about the place ion his wall, the place where the weakened plaster had come away. Robin would make it. Will make it. Will be there again, will get out of this place. Might be able to be something that’s not a toy for Slade’s every whim, at some time. Perhaps, if he’s lucky.

“I still know who your friends are, boy,” is what Slade hisses at him when Robin recoils from Slade’s thick fingers around his wrist, wrapping all the way around in a chainlike vice. “What will it take for you to give in?”

Robin goes limp. He has given in, a small whimper coming from his lips. This is giving in. This is what it has to look like, a pathetic thing pushed against the wall by Slade’s huge form, not even trying to put up a fight. The reaction had been one of fear, nothing more. Nothing real. He doesn’t want to fight Slade any more. Robin just wants to go home. To the tower. To Bruce. He can’t. But he can at least get away from here.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, and Slade rolls his eye. And then Robin’s mouth is pressed against the slick head of his cock, and Robin is doing his duty to his master once again. He has to get out of here. Can’t let this happen again. Can’t simply exist with the humiliation of Slade’s seed spilling hot down his throat, choking it down and licking it off his chin. Whimpering at the pit in his stomach, reminded sickly of this. Glad that there’s something even a little liquid down his throat to make it less dry.

“Please,” he begs, licks his lips, rubs his mouth, the salty taste familiar on his tongue. Heavy on his soul. “I need something to eat.” It comes out quieter, more timid than even he had intended it.

“No.”

Robin looks up at him from his knees, where Slade is redoing his pants. “Please—Master—I don’t know what you want me to do,” he says miserably. “I’m sorry. Whatever I did, I’m sorry—”

“You have a mighty high opinion of yourself, pet, if you think this is all _your _doing.”

Robin’s face burns. Why is it burning? Why is he humiliated? Why is Slade getting to him so easily? He snaps his mouth shut.

“No amount of begging is going to make me change my mind.”

Of course.

Of course. This is just like the rape. It’s something Slade _wants _to do to him, so it’s something that will be done to him. He will have to live with the pit in his stomach, without having to do anything about it. Helpless, like always, but he’s almost gotten used to it—

Something is hot in his eyes. Robin tries to wipe it away, sniffing. It’s all hopeless. It’s all so hopeless. Nothing is going to be okay. He wants to eat. He needs to eat. He can’t fathom going another second without getting something to eat—

And yet he has to, sobbing on the floor at Slade’s boots, holding himself as if he can make up for the people who aren’t there to hold him themselves.


	23. XXIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM ON TIME TODAY IM ON TIME TODAY . . . . i did it lads. <3

Robin  _ will  _ escape.

He’s careful about how he does it—tries to plan it around security cameras, even as his brain starts to fog over like a cold drink on a hot day. Thinking is like moving through hot syrup. All he can think about is food—if maybe he’s good, Slade will give him food, if he remembers enough, Slade will give him food, if he’s lucky, Slade will give him food.

Slade gives him nothing but backhands for when he can’t carry the conversation or doesn’t learn quickly enough. Or move quickly enough. Or if Slade’s simply upset with nobody to take it out on but Robin. Robin wonders sometimes what he does when he’s not waking him up and forcing him to train, torturing him for his own amusement. Watching TV and eating potato chips? Killing things? Training himself?

Who Slade is outside of this . . . Robin still has no idea. After all this time. After how intimately acquainted he is with Slade’s body, his mannerisms, his speech and his patterns and his abilities, he still has no idea where Slade comes from. Who he is, really and truly.

For the first time since he met him, Robin comes to the slow realization that he doesn’t _want _so badly to know. He doesn’t care so much about knowing about Slade right now. That stupid, childish fascination had got him _this_, and he doesn’t want it. Wants his friends and Batman and to be alone again.

But he won’t be able to forget how Slade tastes on his tongue, how his breath smells, the feel of rough stubble against his chin and cruel hands digging into his thighs. This is not what Robin wanted to learn about Slade, it’s too much, too intimate, and he’d _asked for it _like an idiot.

Be careful what you wish for _indeed_.

* * *

Robin stares up at Slade, stuttering in broken Russian. Everything seems fuzzy, far away, Robin’s fingers twisting in Slade’s pants as he kneels at his feet, trying to make his brain work. Trying to prove to . . . trying to get Slade not to hurt him. He doesn’t want to be hurt. Doesn’t want Slade to snarl down at him.

A pause, as he finishes. As Slade stops speaking back to him in perfect, accentless Russian, cut with Robin’s hesitant tones. His hands shake, and he digs them into his own legs, careful not to disturb Slade.

The singular blue eye seems to stare past him, through him, into him. Robin should be used to it. He shivers anyways.

“Acceptable.” Something in Robin lets itself go, relaxes, shivers a little as he relaxes against Slade’s knees. He finds his head dipping, not even able to look Slade in the eyes anymore, forehead resting against the hard bone in the man’s knee. It’s almost a wonder there’s bone there under all that muscle—or maybe he’s all bone, hard edges and cruel knuckles. Robin doesn’t know. He’s just glad that now, he’s not being judged insufficient, not being hurt by Slade.

Something moves. Robin doesn’t. Whatever Slade does to him, it will happen either way. Somehow he’s learned to accept it, some time along the road that Slade’s been dragging him along, left him scuffed and bruised and bleeding and ruined. But it’s just Slade’s hand, fingers slipping between the strands of Robin’s hair, the warm palm resting on his head. Robin thinks that if he lifts his head it will press him back down, but he can’t help his brows scrunching together a little. It’s okay, almost, having Slade’s hand on him.

The confusion shivers through him, though, because he doesn’t know why. Slade must be meaning to hurt him, but he’s _not_. Robin can’t figure out what he wants, what he’s trying to do. Doesn’t know, can’t ask, almost doesn’t mind knowing. It’s all wrong, not something he understands, which means that it’s _dangerous_. Robin shivers, tenses. He doesn’t like that.

But then the moment is over. Robin’s head is pulled back, slightly squished where he’d been pressed against Slade. He thinks he must look dumb staring up at Slade, wondering what the man wants next.

“Get back to work,” Slade says.

Robin does.

* * *

Robin gets food.

This should be a monumental event, as he eats it like he has no hope to get anything else in days. He probably doesn’t. But he doesn’t feel anything except the pain in his stomach go down.

“Thank you, master,” he whispers. Slade smiles indulgently.

* * *

Hours—minutes?

Later, Robin rubs his eyes and pleads with himself to at least be able to get some sleep. He has to stay awake, or else Slade will punish him more, but right now all he wants, all he feels he’d trade his very soul for, is the is a few blinks of sleep. His forearms, sleeves rolled up, are bright red from pinching to keep himself awake. It aches, but it will ache more if Slade finds him sleeping, the same way it aches in the back of his throat and the old scars on his back ache sometimes, knotting over with white tissue Robin can catch a glimpse of in the mirror. He shivers to remember the pain of that.

Robin has never raised a hand against Slade outside of sparring since.

Slade shifts. Robin’s head is up in an instant, a small shot of fear making it easier, just for a few seconds, to stay awake. His eyes meet Slade’s chin, which, from this angle, is the furthest up he can see.

“Taking a break?” Slade says, and there’s a dangerous tone in his voice, sharp and faux calm.

“No—Master, I’m sorry,” Robin murmurs, shaking his head, turning back to what he was doing—

“Now, if you get a break, I think it’s only fair that I do,” Slade muses, and fingers clench down on top of Robin’s head. Robin finds himself guided, to the side, legs shifting, in between—

“_Please_,” Robin begs softly, because he’s so, so tired, and his throat is so, so sore, and every part of him aches with the pain of it.

Slade doesn’t acknowledge him as Robin is pulled steadily between his legs. It’s unconsciously that one of Robin’s hands moves to balance on a muscular thigh of the legs spreading around his head, shuffling on his knees further in. Unconscious as one of his hands rises, shaking in his vision, the other one joining it at the zipper of Slade’s suit.

It makes a terrifying, lonely noise, one that sends a shiver down Robin’s spine.

_It’s okay. I can do this. It’s not so bad._

Slade’s boxers aren’t tight already, which means that he’s not hard. Robin will have to get him hard, and then suck him off, which is more work that almost makes him cry. Every time he sees the man’s cock, he’s so sure he’s never going to be able to swallow it down, and every time it’s pushed into him anyways. Instead, Robin pushes it up through the boxers, trying to touch as little of the skin as possible.

Even as he leans down to slick the head of it with his lips, feeling the weight on his tongue. Tasteless, but for the slight tang of sweat, rather like having two or three fingers in his mouth. His tongue swirls inexpertly, eyes closing so he doesn’t have to look down at the length of it, or the hair, or how close he is to Slade’s body. The thighs press in on him, claustrophobic.

“The fuck taught you to suck cock,” Slade mutters, and Robin’s eyes roll up to him on instinct even if he can’t see anything behind his closed lids. He’s glad he can’t, tongue stopping for a second as he listens.

“You’re a cheap fucking whore,” Slade grumbles, and then Robin’s eyes are rolling back into rainbows of color as the head of Slade’s cock hits the back of his throat. It’s all he can do to suck in air through his nose and focus on not biting down on the shaft; he shudders to think what kind of punishment the latter would bring. His tongue tries again, desperately swirling against the bottom of the shaft. Slade doesn’t respond, but his hands tighten in Robins hair. Is he doing well?

Why does he care if he’s doing well?

Slade thrusts shallowly, almost content not to go further, and Robin hopes it doesn’t go further. Last time he’d choked, but this time, maybe, it won’t slip all the way down his throat—maybe this time he can just let it happen, be able to suck in breaths when Slade’s cockhead isn’t triggering what’s left of his gag reflex. Robin takes in another breath, and then he’s sucking, throat constricting around Slade’s cock as it moves in and out. He doesn’t know if he’s doing this right. He hopes he is. If he is, Slade will be over soon.

It doesn’t go deeper. Not in the next few seconds. Slade seems content to move Robin’s head only about halfway up and down his shaft, Robin doing his best to suck on it. That’s what you do, right?

Robin’s almost positive it’s what you do.

There’s a few seconds reprieve there, Robin’s hands clenching and unclenching as sweat beads in the crooks of them, wiped off sloppily onto his thighs. Drool drips thickly down his chin, landing somewhere in between his legs, making the noise sloppy with Slade’s cock. It almost seems manageable at that point in time, almost normal. Reasonable. Something Robin’s body and mind can handle.

Something stirs in him, in tune with the thrusts his mouth is pulled forward to take. Robin shifts a little on his thighs, tries to find himself better purchase—one hand balances on Slade’s thigh, the other one falling to his own. This is disgusting. But he can do it. Even if it never ends, even as he begins to taste Slade’s enjoyment—

There’s heat between his thighs again.

Robin’s sightless eyes are wide, a fear jerking in his chest. He can’t be. No. This is Slade using his mouth, not Slade touching that _spot_, not Slade jerking him off. There’s not something pressing against his clenched thighs, not something aching in his crotch.

There’s not a small gasp around Slade’s cock between the ministrations of his tongue, set off by Slade moving into him. He’s not hard, Robin’s not hard—

Except that he is.

The tears that have collected at the corners of his eyes due to the gag reflex coalesce, and he has to squeeze his eyes tighter so that they don’t fall. Maybe Slade can’t see him. Maybe he doesn’t know. This isn’t his fault, he doesn’t want this—

“You’re turning out to be quite the slut, aren’t you?”

Robin makes a noise of protest around Slade’s cock, hand fisting on his thigh. Slade knows. Of course Slade knows.

Everything is unbearable. Why is he surprised it keeps getting worse?

Robin feels Slade shifting, feels his thigh moving in front of him. He thinks he wants a better angle, maybe to get down Robin’s throat and fuck it better. Robin lets him. Slade’s knee almost eclipses his face from this position, small than ever—

The sole of Slade’s boot presses cruelly down on Robin’s erection.

Robin can’t help the agonized almost-moan that comes out of his mouth at the tension, at the pain of it. Why is this happening? He can’t . . . Robin knows he doesn’t want . . .

Slade takes advantage of the gasping noise to pull Robin’s hair forward, nails pinching at his scalp, cock sliding down his throat and choking him. The black boot presses down harder, Robin trying to gasp but unable to. There is not enough air in his lungs. The hairs of Slade’s crotch tickle at his nostrils, at his chin. Stars dance in front of his eyes already.

His cock aches from the pain of having Slade pressing down on him.

Robin wants to beg him to stop, hands pressing on the man’s thighs with almost no force behind them, but he’s mute in this place. It’s all he can do to let the tears trickle down his cheeks, let himself shudder and shiver. He _aches _against the sole of Slade’s boot, but his protests are cut into little groans around the man’s cock, trying to shuffle away as the pressure only increases.

Slade is laughing. Robin is so sure he can hear him laughing, feel the chuckling as the man begins to thrust deeper, Robin’s lips stretching obscenely around the spit-slicked member, but perhaps it’s his own shivering. It hurts. Everything hurts.

Slade’s foot twitches, pushes Robin’s cock to the side, still making it scream at him as his eyes shut tighter, as if that will make it hurt less. It’s not as bad as the whipping. But this isn’t punishment. This is just for Slade’s fun. He’s getting off on it. Robin can taste it.

The gait of Slade’s thrusting starts to stutter in a terribly familiar way, and Robin’s breath—the breath he doesn’t have, it hitches, would be hitching if it worked. Robin _sucks_, does his best to get Slade off, make it faster. Slade’s boot presses down harder and Robin suddenly _can’t _take the pain, a whimper low in his throat as the stars in front of his eyes dance more frantically—

And then finally Slade’s grip is loosening and Robin’s cock hurts less and Slade is—moving, pulling out. Letting it go, letting it all be done, but there’s something off. The engorged member is in front of his face, eyes opening helplessly, red and veined and obscenely slick with spit and precum, Slade’s rough fingers massaging it. Robin realizes what he plans to do seconds before he’s doing it, because—_no, no please_—sucking in desperate air to beg but it’s too late.

A grunt from Slade as Robin feels the first of it hit his forehead, hot—sticky and dribbling down his eyebrow, making him squint before more of it’s shot onto his cheek. A strange whimpering sound comes from him, one he barely realizes is his own, mouth hanging open a little. Slade’s hips keeps stuttering, spasming it onto Robin’s face, eyes shut as far as he can go, trying to foist his head away but only coming up against the hands dug hard into his scalp. It feels neverending, like he’s drowning, some of it dripping down his upper lip into his still slightly open mouth.

And then it’s over, and Robin is opening slicked eyelids to stare up at Slade’s hand. A thumb brushes against his forehead, near Robin’s hairline, and the rough pad brushes the last of against him, pulling away across his vision to show Slade tucking himself back in his boxers, to show a face so far above him Robin can never hope to reach it.

Why is this happening to him?

Why is he still so _hard _under Slade’s boot, why is his body betraying him like this, why doesn’t it even _belong to him_, why can’t he even leave, why is this happening—

Here he is, humiliated under Slade’s boot, nothing at all, nothing he can do about it, the disgust burning him up from the inside keener than any pain Slade has managed to inflict on him yet.

And instead of a mask, he has Slade’s spunk drooling down the contours of his face. Robin whimpers again, small, wanting to shut his eyes but they’re forced so wide anyways, sticky lashes blinking up at Slade, something catching in his throat.

Robin’s crying before he realizes it, ugly sobs choking through his throat, tears cutting tracks in the come spattered on his face. Teeth bite on his lip to stay the noise, but it’s choked out anyways. He can still hear the sound of Slade’s other hand zipping himself up, making him sick, feeling warm liquid leak onto his chin.

There is nothing to say.

Slade’s hand is at the side of his face, thumb over his ear, fingers buried in the long hair. Robin’s leaning into it before he knows what he’s doing, staring ahead of himself into nothingness, squeezing his thighs together and wishing he could be anywhere else.

“Good boy,” Slade murmurs.

Robin sobs.

* * *

Star.

Starfire, grinning at him, soft hands against his chin as she wipes hair gel off of his forehead. Once, one of the times they sat on the roof, she’d shyly placed a hand on his thigh. Robin had looked over, only to see the orange blush across her cheeks.

Now, he imagines the hand trailing upwards, Star staring at him with those intense eyes and flushed cheeks, cool fingers on his own hot skin. Slipping below his jeans, between his legs, somehow expert fingers finding him already hard. Grinning at him, Robin smiling back at her.

He moans, half a fist shoved in his mouth to keep the sound silent even in the room he’s in, the other fist feverishly working up and down his cock. Robin’s lost in a shivering, lusty fog, pants lost on the floor—though he’d been too needy to even discard his shirt.

Robin’s eyes are shut, and he imagines it’s Star’s slim fingers that are working him up and down, her warm body next to his instead of the cold sheets, her whispering voice in his ear.

_Dick—_

With a groan he can’t suppress, he’s coming, spilling all over his fist and whimpering thought the aftershocks, shivering in something resembling pleasure on the bed, gasping for air. He lets his cock go soft before he’s burying his face in his pillow again, trying to wipe up the last of the come with his fingers. The temporary high from dreaming of Star is gone now, and all he can feel is the agony that she’s not here, humiliation making him want to hide his face even though there’s nobody to look.

Slade made him do this. Slade made him into this. Robin didn’t _want _this.

There is no escape.

But he has to. He has to. He has to get back to Star, because now he can _try_. Slade’s tricked him into thinking Slade is unstoppable, unbeatable. He’s been trying to hammer that lie into Robin’s head since that very first day, so long ago. If Robin wants to get away, he has to _fight it_. He has to refuse to believe Slade, no matter what Slade did to him.

There’s a scar on his arm, one from so long ago he can barely remember—one of his first missions as Robin; some two-bit crook’s knife had cut him. Bruce hadn’t _fussed _over him, exactly—Bruce never fussed. But he’d pulled the bandage tight and let the crimson bleed through the white and beat the man who did it until there was blood spattered on the dirty bricks of the alley and Robin could see white bone poking through the skin.

Fingers rub the knotted tissue, pain long gone, but he can almost feel the comforting ghost hovering deep inside him. He _will _do this. Robin . . . he doesn’t know who Robin is anymore. But he _remembers _who Robin _was_. Someone who could get out of here, who knew how to fight, who could fight back against someone like Slade.

Who didn’t find himself on his knees, sobbing with Slade’s—

_God_.

The come of his own is rubbed off carelessly on the side of the sheets, anger bleeding through Robin’s body, slow but building. Skinny legs—so much skinnier than they used to be, almost skeletal. He can see the knobs of his ankles sticking out, and Robin’s reminded all at once of how hungry he is.

Of how tired he is.

Shivering soles are placed against the cold floor, Robin’s self-consciousness of his nudity all but gone. There is nobody to see. The lights will be out soon, Slade’s way of ordering him to sleep.

Even the idea of following _that _fills him with fury.

Robin’s hands form fists, easy ones, the ones he was trained to do so long ago—when Bruce took his smaller hand in his own and placed his thumb outside of the hand and told him to hit the practice dummy as hard as his eight year old body could.

He imagines that the wall in front of him, already dented, is that dummy. Summons forth all the anger he had back then, pale and deep-rooted now, the desire to make Bruce proud a ghost in his consciousness.

Robin pretends that the plaster is Slade’s mask as his knuckles collide with a vicious _crack_.

They come away bloody.

It feels _good_.

The next _crack _sounds in his ear, vibrates up his arm, over and over. Blood spatters the wall, the plaster giving way beneath his hand. This is him, destroying it, destroying something that Slade wants intact. His own hand. The hand that Slade had broken, had tries to _stop_.

Robin will _not _be stopped.

It cracks under him, the dust getting in his face so hard he coughs—but doesn’t stop. It falls on his bare feet. Robin barely notices when the lights go out, plunging him into absolute darkness. His fist is still going forward to where it’s meant to be, finding its next in the wall, digging deeper into a furious hole. the powder is mixing with the blood on his knuckles, making a kind of paste between his fingers. He doesn’t pause to rub it off. The tide of emotions—Beast Boy, Raven, Slade, Cyborg, Star, Batman, all of them flashing through his mind as his muscles are weak with the sickness of it.

Raven is dead.

_Crack._

Beast Boy is dead.

_Crack_.

Slade raped me.

_Crack_.

Batman didn’t come for me.

_Crack._

This is all _my fault._

_Crack._

Robin realizes belatedly that he’s sobbing in the darkness, a short, halting sound, tears making his face hot with his own pain. It’s like the hot blood on his knuckles, and without sight, he can almost imagine that it’s blood streaming from his eyes. A silent, crimson scream.

The hitting becomes slow, one hand coming to rub furiously at his eyes. Robin feels weak. Helpless.

Like nothing.

Like how he feels when Slade is on top of him, inside him.

Bloody fingers dig angrily into the plastic socket, helpless. The tips probe into the rough, powdery substance—

And then his nails hit something cold, and metal.

Robin stops.

He runs the pads of his fingers over it, just to make sure it’s real. But no—of course it is. This is right next to the door, where he’d planned to dig. He’d known that this was there when he’d made the first dent a few days ago.

This is the control panel.

Had Robin really reached it? There’s nothing else it could be, right? Of course there’s nothing else it could be. He can feel the contours of it, the places where he can pry it open.

_There’s no way Slade won’t notice this in the morning_. Robin shivers, thinking of how angry he will be. _I’m sorry for destroying your property, master_.

No. Robin _won’t_. Because even if he’s impulsively forced himself into this, this is his _chance_. His fucking _chance_.

The tears drip off his chin, and nothing replaces them. Robin licks salt off his lips, fingers beginning to truly take stock of what is in front of him. His mind narrows to the task ahead.

To his _freedom_.

For the first time in long, long months, Robin feels a little bit more like _Robin_.


	24. XXIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha . . . now we get to see how robin's ploy turned out . . . . hehe >:3c

Nails bite into the edges of the metal container as Robin bites the side of his mouth in anxious tension. He’d had to grab one of the springs from the bed to use as a halfway decent makeshift screwdriver, and had spent what felt like hours working it into the perfect spot. Now, he lets his nails grab at the metal covering to the wires, holding his breath as it slips out into his fingers.

There’s a second or two of silent celebration in the dark before he gets back to work. The darkness makes it hard, almost, but Robin’s been trained in the dark by Batman. He’d grown up in Gotham, after all, was part of that city of night. He’d learned to do everything in pitch black, and now he’s grateful.

_I could be seeing Bruce soon_, he thinks, and a feeling sparks inside him like he hasn’t felt in so long. Excitement. Anticipation. Hope, like he hasn’t dared in so long. Robin just has to get away. Does he dare to hope that he can leave?

Robin has to.

The wires spark in his fingers, illuminating themselves slightly as thin fingers work at it. He doesn’t know how long it takes him to get the door open—minutes and hours blur as he focuses in a miasma of nervousness and excitement. It comes open with a click and a whirr and then—

Robin is left in the threshold of the darkness, shivering and small and naked and suddenly he realizes what he’s doing. Is this the _right thing_?

Slade will hurt him.

Slade will hurt him _badly_.

The last time he did this, Beast Boy died, died because Robin was too stupid, too incompetent, because he hadn’t, somehow, been able to make himself move. He’d just stood there, let Gar be gutted alive.

His fault. Because he’d gone against Slade. If he’d let Slade do what he wanted, Gar wouldn’t have died. It would all have been okay. Is this the right decision? Can Robin even do it?

And at the end of it, of the agony that shakes his small figure, one broken down so _far _and so terribly _easily _by Slade—he’d done this. Agreed to be Slade’s apprentice, killed Raven, killed Gar. Done this to himself.

Broken the team, got them killed, ruined it all. For nothing. For it all to end up the same way it was, for Robin under Slade’s grip, for everything to . . .

Fall apart.

Slade’s _right_. Robin isn’t Robin anymore, doesn’t deserve the _title _of Robin, of _hero_, of anything. Raped and spoiled and ruined and pathetic. If Robin had any sense of _justice_, if he cared about making up for the death of his friends—

He’d stay. He’d let Slade hurt him. It’s what he deserves. What _should _be happening. Robin would be—whatever Slade wanted him to be. His stupid whore. That’s what he deserves.

Because Raven and Gar are gone.

Robin shivers in the doorway. Whatever it is, he still knows what will happen. What choice he’ll make, what he’ll end up doing in the _end_. He can’t live like this. Doesn’t know how to endure like this.

Robin doesn’t deserve to escape. But he will anyways.

* * *

The sheet—the only thing he’d managed to find to wear, and had fashioned around himself like a mini toga—drags a little behind him. He doesn’t want to show up naked. There’s only two ways he’s seen the door open—one with Slade’s thumbprint, which he has no real way to imitate, and one with the central computer, which is used to turn the lights off and on and flick the doors open. That means he’s going to be getting into the computer, using the halls that he’s become so familiar with to find the room here. They’d been memorized for _just _this type of situation. The place is cold under his bare feet, sticking to the walls that he can trace with one hand—letting him know where he is in the dark. It’s only once the slap of his bare feet begins to echo that he knows he’s reached the computer room—the one with the throne in it, so similar to what had been in the last, now destroyed base. Slade almost certainly uses the same or similar blueprints for them, which is all the more convenient for Robin.

His heart begins to beat faster as he practically runs to the computer. This has to be fast, before Slade finds him or guesses where he is—the man might have some kind of alert when it’s unlocked, or motion sensors in the room. Still, it’s faster than fumbling around trying to find the exit. It’ll be somewhere in the maps on the computer, he knows it.

The monitor is cold when Robin presses his ear against it. Unfortunate. He thinks he hears something behind him, eyes turning as fast as he can and flicking through the darkness—nothing. A shiver goes down his spine. But if Slade was here—Robin would know it. He would feel the heavy gloved hands on his back already, the smug voice in his ear. Now, he still has a _chance_.

It lights up, Robin squinting, casting the whole place in an eerie blue light. Robin gets right to work as soon as it finishes booting up, fingers tapping absently, nervously, at the idle time it takes to get ready. There’s only a few options he has to hack the thing from scratch, fingers playing across the keyboard as he readjusts the sheet that covers him. It’s cold, but his expectation keeps him warm.

_LOCKED_, the computer informs him. It starts to shut down, Robin’s gut spiking in an awful sinking feeling. _No_. This can’t be the end of it, can’t let it happen this way. It’s so high security, maybe he never had a chance, it couldn’t have—

Wait.

Slade’s laptop.

The one he likes to use on the throne, above Robin, clacking away as Robin kneels at his feet. There’s no way that one was the main computer. In seconds, he’s using the last of the light, feeling his way to where he remembers it was, desperately hoping that Slade hasn’t taken it to his room with him.

Cold under his fingers.

_Score_.

It flicks open with a click, Robin tapping the power button three or four times as it powers up. There’s no guarantee it has the map, but it could have something else, and it _might_. God knows what Slade keeps on his laptop.

Porn?

_Child _porn?

Robin shivers.

This time, he can activate a basic script without it failing on him. It’s going to be some time before it finally works, Robin glancing behind him to where the blue light fades away into darkness. That makes him shiver too. Slade could be right behind there, watching him. Waiting for him to slip up. Savoring his fear as he waits to—

Robin pulls himself away.

Dexterous fingers pull open the drawers in this part of the desk, pressed against the wall. There’s the usual—knives, cleaning equipment for weapons, more knives. A second mask is there, which makes Robin do half a double take. It seems terribly strange to him that there’s not _one_, not _the _Slade mask, but he supposes it makes sense. It’s not like he doesn’t have multiple Robin outfits.

There’s a letter addressed to Slade—Robin memorizes the address it’s addressed to, somewhere in Cuba. A safehouse? What’s it doing here? He glances at the return address—from someone named _A. Kane_, in Minnesota. Strange. Is he in Cuba?

That would explain why Slade hadn’t already been arrested for all the heinous things that he was clearly guilty of.

The next, last one nearly makes him gasp in delight like Starfire might. It’s the soft fabric of his mask, and Robin cradles it in his hand as if it’s something precious. Without even looking around, he flips it over, wiping the dirt off of it before carefully placing it on his face, brushing the dark strands out of the way. It fits perfectly, blinking in the lenses, and Robin takes a sigh of . . . contentment. Relief. This is . . .

Right?

It feels alien, now that it’s settled on him. Strange. Unfamiliar. Robin licks his lips, shivering, pressing it in. Waiting for something to _click _in his mind, for everything to go back to the way it was—where there’s no collar around his neck, where Slade was just a villain interested in murder, not one with proclivities for . . . other things. But nothing happens. He’s left feeling empty, like he’s expected more, like there should be something. Robin wonders dismally if his robin uniform might still be here, but his intellect tells him it’s probably already gone. That hurts. He pushes it aside. Just like Bruce. Robin can take this.

Robin still can’t bring himself to take off the mask. It feels comforting, nostalgic. Something to keep him on course—and of course, it lights up the dark with greenlit vision, making him stop shivering whenever he sees anything pretend to move out of the corner of his eye.

A low, almost imperceptible sound. It makes Robin turn anyways. The laptop is done, cracked—the small bit of code had worked. He thanks Babs silently, even if it hurts to think about her. Robin would like to see her again, badly. This way he can, even if—

Would she be disappointed in him? Bruce would be. They all should be. But even if he has to face that, just to see them, to know they’re safe—

That might be enough.

The background of the laptop is the basic rolling hills, the default for a laptop of that brand. It stands in contrast to the dark room, to Slade’s personality. It’s almost funny.

There aren’t very many files on Slade’s laptop, scattered across the idyllic desktop, with standard, reasonable labels like _SPECS_, _CONTACTS_, _PLANS_, _INFO_. Robin wonders slightly how Slade finds anything with such generic lists. He’s glancing over the files, and none say plans, so he’s going to go for the info, but—

_bots_

Robin glances at it, looks around, lets the cursor hover over it for a scant few seconds. It can’t be. Could it? It seems so . . . basic. Too basic for Slade. But then—he can’t help himself from clicking on it. It takes a few seconds to load, and then he’s staring at a perfectly understandable layout—

_ONE SUBJECT: alive. 90 bpm. 98 deg._

His heart pounds. One subject. One subject still with the bots in them. That means—

That means that Raven could still be alive. That means that she could—Slade could have been bluffing. He could have hidden her from the Titans. There’s no other way it could have happened. It can’t be Beast Boy, or Cyborg, or Star, because they were there when Slade tries to kill them.

His heart is jumping, something pounding in his ears that is hope, real hope, true and pure because _Raven could be alive_, still alive. Still living, free from Robin’s choices. One less life on his conscience, selfishly. Robin makes a sound, a choked one halfway through relief and joy. This is . . . better than he had anticipated. Still, he has to get _going_. Robin clicks away hurriedly, flicking the cursor to the _info _pages, trying to find anything about the building. There’s not much luck, Robin leaning back and holding his tongue between his teeth.

“Having trouble, boy?”

Every muscle goes tense. Robin’s veins freeze. He’s spinning before he knows what he’s doing, his own small shadow in the blue light, staring with wide and shocked eyes at the hulking figure of Slade. He’s only half-dressed, shirtless in sweatpants. The eye of his that had been put out isn’t covered by a patch, instead just a black pit where it should be.

The man’s words are colder than Robin’s blood. 

“M—Sl-I was just—”

Slade is in front of him, his shoulder pushing Robin roughly out of the way. He stumbles, eyes still fixed on Slade. A hand digs into his upper arm hard enough to bruise, dragging him along. There is malice in Slade’s blue eye, vicious and cruel. “Let me _help_.”

Robin’s dragged along, too paralyzed to move. To think. This can’t be happening, even as he clings to his sheets to keep them on him. He was so close. He was going to get out—Raven is alive, and suddenly Slade is here—

The mouse hovers over a folder called _GRAYSON_. Robin’s eyes flick to Slade, but his eye and eyehole are focused on the screen. _INTAKE, _says one folder, and then_ PICTURES_—

A rough jerk on his arm. Breath hot against the shell of his ear, a cruel voice whispering to him. “I’ve been watching you.” Robin shivers. He doesn’t dare pull away, doesn’t move an inch.

The screen is filled with flesh—some of it shot in night vision, tinted green. It only takes a few seconds to take it all in, eyes flicking around the scene as Slade scrolls down—

Robin. It’s Robin. It’s him naked on his bed, clearly drugged, sheets pressed aside. It’s Robin kneeling in between Slade’s legs, the man’s cock pistoning in and out of his lips. Robin pinned down with his ass up, Slade on top of him. Robin with his hands down his pants. Robin curled up naked. Robin standing in the bathroom, wearing nothing but his collar. Robin. Robin. Robin.

He can’t breathe. Nausea wells in him, shaking down his whole body in Slade’s grip. No. What is this—has he been—Slade—

Slade’s been taking pictures this whole time. Keeping them—god, what’s he been doing with them? Robin knows what he’s been doing with them. He hopes they haven’t been spread, haven’t been leaked, that Bruce hasn’t seen them. A record. So Slade can remember, every time he raped him, every time he ruined him, every time he claimed him. So the record is there forever, and Robin can almost feel Slade’s hands on him just from looking at the pictures, remember when it was. He’s shaking. Slade’s hand is still clamped down like a vice on his arm.

Something seems to fall within him, collapse a little. There’s something blooming behind his eyelids. Slade is here. Robin has to get away. He can’t stand another second here, with Slade. Getting fucked by him. Used by him. Owned by him.

“Is this what you were looking for?” Slade quips.

Robin yanks his arm away with all his strength as he pushes himself back. He still knows that with Slade’s strength, he’s being let go. An indulgence. Because he has no power, no rights, no meaning. How are tears falling already?

“You’re disgusting,” Robin whispers.

Slade laughs, but it’s short and sharp and bitter. He’s angry. Robin wants him to be angry. Wants to know he has some kind of effect.

“I’m _terribly _disappointed with you,” Slade says dangerously. “I thought you’d learned your _place_. And yet here I find my property trying to run away from me again.”

The mask burns on Robin’s face. “I’m not your fucking property!” He stomps his foot. “I’m a person! A fucking person! And I’m leaving!”

Slade hits him.

Robin doesn’t see him coming. He stumbles into the wall, spitting blood, stars dancing in front of his vision. Slade still stands placid.

“I give you an _opportunity_. I tell I’m going to teach you, to make you into something _better _than you are. I give you the proper fucking _incentives_.”

Robin backs up against the wall. His eyes are still narrowed, head still spinning. Just how hard had Slade hit him? “I didn’t want it! I didn’t want any of it! I just want to go _home_!”

“This is the only home you’re ever going to have,” Slade hisses. Robin jerks forward from a punch to his gut, acid in his throat. He can’t breathe. He’s hitting the floor hard, palms barely taking it, shockwaves echoing up to his shoulders. Blood trickles down his chin. It feels like getting hit by a black and orange freight train. Enhanced strength. Enhanced reflexes. “I told you. You don’t have _friends_. You don’t have a _home_. The only _rights you have are the ones I give you_. What fucking part of that did I not make clear, you _imbecilic child_?”

A hand yanks on his hair. Robin finds himself clawing at Slade’s bare chest as he’s dragging bodily upwards, shivering and falling, however much he hates it against him until he’s pushing himself violently back seconds later. Slade’s fingers dig viciously into his scalp.

“You’re a disgusting excuse for a person,” Robin snarls. “I hate you. I wish you were _dead_. You raped me!” He’s half screaming now, struggling with all he has to escape Slade’s grip. “You ruined me! Did your parents _die_? Did they _hit _you? Or did they rape you like you did to ME?”

His hand, clenched at his side—the one not pressing with all its force against Slade—clamps down on the one thing he’d kept. The spring he’d used to unscrew the control panel, sharp enough to hurt and cut. To get Slade away from him, so he’s never hurt again. Can’t hurt Robin or anyone else.

Robin _spits _the last word in Slade’s face and the spring comes up. It’s aiming for the jugular, right at the vein where Slade would bleed out. Robin’s vision is blurred from the tears, but he can still watch it fall—

Feel himself fall as Slade jerks his body aside to avoid the blow, letting it dig into his shoulder and carve a wicked crimson line down his left pectoral. Robin collapses to the ground, feverishly pushing himself away from Slade. His hands hurt, his head hurts.

Slade raises a brow, almost oblivious to the blood. A hand grabs the spring, throws it away. Robin swallows, glare back at him with just as much intensity.

“I gave you so many damn opportunities to _learn_. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m wasting my _time _on you.”

“So then kill me,” Robin spits, means to spit, but it comes out more like a sob.

Slade’s bare feet slap against the floor as dangerously as any boots might stomp. Robin stumbles deliriously to his feet, trying to find the best way to get away. To get free. To never have to see Slade again, to see Bruce, and Babs, and Star, and Vic, and be _okay_—

“Maybe I should,” Slade whispers.

Robin sobs, too pained to be humiliated, pushing himself up with shaking hands. It hurts. His head hurts, and his gut hurts. Now, it hurts to move.

“Or maybe I should just keep you as my _whore_. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, a little slut like you?”

“Shut up!” Robin screams. He wraps the sheet further around himself, shivering. He has to get away. He can’t be like this, it can’t be like this, he can’t let it be like this. Robin can’t take any more of it, can’t let Slade hurt him anymore like _that_. “I know you lied to me! I know your secret! I know Raven’s still alive.”

Slade’s brow raises in genuine bemusement and Robin feels a jolt of vicious pleasure, tiny but _there_, because he’d gotten something over on Slade. A little something. That’s _real_.

“That’s right!” Robin hisses. “I saw the bots. I saw there was one left! You didn’t do it! You left her—you tricked them, tricked me, but I know she’s alive!”

Slade’s other brow raises.

Then Robin’s bolting past him, the sheet pulled tight to his body, skin slapping against the cold floor as fast as it possibly can. His hair, longer now, streams behind him as he pushes in an arc around him, hoping he’s distracted, knowing he’s right that she’s _alive_, that she’s okay. He will be okay too. He can be okay. Robin can get past Slade, make it out, make it real—

A _click_. Familiar. The click of a trigger, of the trigger he thought Slade had discarded once it had become worthless.

Robin screams. Something is cutting into him, everywhere—from all sides, no, from _inside_, from the very core of him outwards. It feels like he’s exploding from the inside out but every nerve is intact to feel the muscle and bone being torn from one another. All that’s in front of him is gold and orange going off, all that’s in his mind is the sheer, unstoppable agony of it. A thousand knives dig their way out of his body, bloodless, endless. The only noise he can take in is what he barely realizes is his own shrieking. Something is bubbling from his throat, another something carving him apart from the inside out, turning his insides to the air and cutting his organs out of him—

The floor is cold against his tear-streaked face. Robin’s heart hasn’t pounded its way out of his chest—he’s almost shocked to find it still sitting in his ribcage, surprised to feel that his lungs still suck in metallic air for all they’re worth. Everything aches, Robin blinking blearily. Hands shake under him—he has to get up, has to get away. _Slade_. _Escaping. Getting out_. Nails claw at the floor, pulling himself forward—

His palms are under him, and tears are streaming down his face from the ache of pressing burning muscles to their feet, shivering there on the floor. Which way is Slade—he’s spinning, desperate to find him, half tripping on the sheets that now hang almost all the way down to his hips.

Seconds later, all he can see is the pale white hair that coats the man’s chest, whimpering and trying to stumble away, still defiant.

Slade steps up to him in one solid stride, a boot landing squarely on part of the sheet. “The nanobots aren’t in Raven, idiot boy,” he murmurs. “They’re in _you_.”

Robin stares up at him, at the white goatee and black pit and glaring bright blue eye. Thick lips move, still pained. No. No, that can’t be right, because—because Raven has to be, because he was so _sure _she was, because—

“Now _kneel_,” Slade instructs, as if he’s a teacher just on the edge of his patience.

More tears burn in Robin’s eyes. He glares at Slade, bares his teeth. Then he spits at him. It only hits Slade’s chin, slicks the bottom of it before it falls between them to the floor.

Robin’s knees give out instantly. He’s falling down, falling forward, eyes wide. His knees bang against the floor, body rocking forward, leaning back. Kneeling. Staring up at him, aching, at the trigger that he hold ever so carefully in his now bare hand. Is he—is this what—

Robin can’t move. He tries, tries again, tries desperately to tear himself off of his knees but he _can’t_, can’t get it to work. A sob works its way up through his chest, licking slicked lips—

The mask is ripped off of his face like a bandage, leaving stinging red behind.

Slade towers. He licks his lips.

Something hot and wet lands between Robin’s eyes with a slick noise and his eyes widen, feel something alien in one of them, tries to shake his head to get it off but all he can do is _close them_. Slade—spit on him, he can feel it dribbling down his face and down his cheeks through the tear tracks and hear his own whimpering.

“This is where you belong.”

Robin struggles, again, but nothing moves. Nothing changes.

Nothing at all.

All he can move is his lips, forming angry words. “Go to hell, Slade.” Another sob, this one stuck in his chest and choking up his voice.

A backhand.

Robin’s head jerks to the side, aching, eyes shut tight. Blood dribbles down his chin, along with a sob. He has to leave. He has to go. He can’t live another day like this, with Slade.

_Why me_?

This is hell. This is hell and Robin is dead.

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

“I hope you _die_,” Robin whispers. “I hope it hurts. It’s what you _deserve_.”

Slade clicks his tongue. Fingers guide Robin’s head up, and he slowly opens his eyes to see Slade looking at him almost . . . thoughtfully.

Then fingers are hooking into the collar, the back of it. Robin can feel the rough knuckles and suddenly he can move again—

Meaningless as soon as Slade starts dragging him. Robin lets out a choked yelp, clawing at the collar. He’s shaking his head, the sheets sloughing off his body as he’s naked again. Except for the collar, the handle that Slade uses to drag him around. Robin grabs it, tries to be able to breathe through it. The floor is cold, scuffs his thighs. He struggles with all he’s worth.

“Slade! Slade! Did you hear me? I’m leaving. I’m leaving! I’m going away and I’m never coming back and I _hate _you and—” Here he chokes, airways cut off, gagging on his own blood. The only noises that come are choked gurgles, heels trying to drag on the floor as he’s viciously pulled across the concrete. Robin spasms, thrashes, tries every trick he knows to get Slade’s hands _off _of him, Slade’s fingers away from him. He doesn’t know where he’s going but he doesn’t want to be there. Robin has to get away.

He has to leave.

He can’t stay here.

Skin is shaved off the backs of his thighs, his buttocks, the bottoms of his heels. It skids but the pain doesn’t matter, can’t matter, because all that matters is getting free. He’d done it. Robin had escaped, he’d done it, he’s going to step out and see Bruce and see the _sun_—

The door clicks open. Robin’s collar loosens, and he’s staring up, waiting expectantly. This is the door that will take him outside, the one that will show him the light, the on that means he’s free—

It has to be. Must be, because anything else is inconceivable. Not worth thinking of or imagining, not in the least.

Robin’s thrown bodily through the air with a yell, his back slamming into cold concrete. His head spins. Blood trickles down the back of his neck. This isn’t—this—why isn’t this—

There is only one source of light: the cold, soulless shimmer that cuts through the darkness from the door, Slade Wilson silhouetted in it.

No.

_No._ This isn’t right.

Robin’s on his feet, head screaming at him, dark on the edges of the vision as he throws his body weight towards the door. There’s a loud scream. It’s him.

The door slams shut.

There is no light.

Robin shrieks. His throat is raw. Hands pound on the door, blood trickling down his knuckles. But here—this is stone. Not like the plaster, not something he can dig through with his fingers. With sheer force of Robin’s will. This isn’t right. This can’t be real.

Robin’s screams echo back to him like a chorus of agony.

They don’t end.


	25. XXV

Robin wakes up in darkness. It’s cold, and dirty, and all he can feel is some bone-deep chill. But Slade’s not here. He’s so glad Slade’s not here, because—

Because Robin can’t take being used like that anymore. Not once more. He thinks if it happened again, he would simply dissolve into the air, like paper in the ocean. Fingers trace their way around the cell; small, almost five feet by five feet. Tiny. Something meant to keep a prison. But it’s not so bad. It’s not so bad.

Robin should be free.

* * *

Robin designates the corner to the left of the door as the bathroom. There’s not much that passes, because he was barely fed and watered. There is water in one corner, though he can’t place where it comes from. Robin’s forced to lean down and lap it out of his fingers like a dog when he needs it, when his throat is so parched he doesn’t care.

He can still smell the filth, the filth on every part of him. There’s not even a blanket to curl around himself when he shivers through the night. The collar won’t come off—probably wouldn’t have come off, even if he’d used the knife he’d found in Slade’s drawer.

Robin hates it.

* * *

The very worst part is the boredom. The smell he can get used to, the gnawing in his stomach that is probably Slade teaching him a lesson. Those are . . . things that can become normal, after a long enough time. Everything can become normal after a long enough time, really—

But the boredom never stops getting to him. Never stops making him pace, making him shiver. There is nobody to talk to; all that’s left is Robin. Robin and the memories of Raven screaming her last breaths silently on the screens around them. Beast Boy coughing his last breath of blood onto the ground, staring into Robin’s eyes. When those get too bad, all he can do is curl up into a ball in the corner, small body shivering, eyes glassy, and beg for it to pass. There is nobody there.

Nobody there but Robin in the darkness.

Sometimes he doubts that the place even has four walls, waking up in the middle of whenever he decides to sleep. The darkness could go on forever, into a thousand thousand miles of nothingness. No people, only things waiting to catch him and eat him alive and remind him of all his horrible failures. Ocean, maybe, black as the air.

“Bruce?”

But Bruce never answers. All that’s here is what’s left of Robin, curled up naked in the cold and dark. It’s what he deserves, he knows, and the idea hurts so terribly it makes him shake but he pushes it onto himself. This is what he is: a failure. This is his hell. His own personal place of suffering, in the darkness.

_I will never forgive you, Robin,_ Raven says. Robin whimpers, sobs.

_I know_.

_I know._

* * *

The only light that Robin sees is the stars that dance in front of his eyes whenever he stands up from his sleeping corner. It corresponds perfectly to the aching in his gut. Maybe it’s the loneliness driving him insane, or the hunger. If he could just see the light—see Bruce, see anyone—then the stars would disappear and he would be able to see again. It’s the light trying to get through to him, but he’s too alone for it to come. Too broken.

There is nothing left for him.

Robin sobs and sobs until he has no tears left, because nobody is there for him. The starvation truly begins to burn away at his insides, and Robin is left. Why isn’t Slade—Slade isn’t coming because Robin is alone, because he failed. Because there’s nothing left. It aches through him, shaking with every step he takes. Pacing almost seems pointless now, so Robin’s left curled up. There’s nowhere to go, and he doesn’t remember why he would bother to exercise anyways.

Oh.

A _hero_.

Because he was supposed to be a hero. Because Robin is a failure, to Bruce, to his friends, to everyone who has ever thought of him as a friend. This is curse. Slade is what he deserves—the darkness, the meaningless blackness is what he deserves.

Robin thinks his thoughts might not make sense. It’s hard to pinpoint which ones, exactly, wouldn’t. The old Robin would. But the old Robin is long, long dead—died the first time he put on the Renegade uniform and stole from Wayne Industries, just like Slade ordered him to. Nothing makes sense here, with Slade, in the darkness, and if anyone didn’t think _this _made sense—

Well. Nobody is here to judge him and his circumstances anyways. And that’s the worst of it. Bruce—Bruce could be here. Star, or Vic.

It all comes back to one thing: Robin isn’t _good enough_.

* * *

Robin is all alone.

* * *

The screaming yells still only answer each other with echoes.

* * *

The blood stings at his knuckles once again.

Robin yells. His hand smashes itself against the stone, pain thrusting its way all the way up his arm to his shoulder. Robin knows he’s bleeding from the wetness dripping between his fingers in the darkness. He’s not even sure if this is the right wall near the door, but it may as well be. It doesn’t matter anyways.

Robin throws himself against it as if it’s the door. Maybe he can push it open. But he has to _move_, has to do something. Anything. The restlessness feels like needles under his skin all the way to the bone, poking him furiously. There’s nothing to do, or move.

A calloused heel collides with the stone, and this time the pain is all the way up to his hip. Robin doesn’t even lower his thigh before he’s pulling it back to kick again, and again, each with a hiss of breath that’s instinctual to his training.

Nothing’s happening.

Robin is just as ineffectual as before, just as ineffectual as _always_. His body, his existence, has no meaning at all. Nobody to witness him, to see his . . . anything, to care. Talking to someone. Being with someone. Anything, anything, _anything_.

Stars almost take up all of his vision. Stars like Starfire, bursting in his vision. Robin shivers on his one leg, falls over. His head slams against the stone with a crack, more stars obscuring everything. It’s the hunger. The fact that he hasn’t eaten in so long. That Slade’s—

Slade’s forgotten about him. Slade is done with him. Robin is no longer useful or wanted or needed. Robin will die here, starving, left alone.

Robin pulls himself to his feet. He can’t let this happen. Whatever _this _is. Can’t let himself just fade away, can’t stand to—

A cracked yell as he slams shoulder-first against the stone. The whole of his strength into it. Robin has to make a dent. Has to make _anything_. The yell turns into a scream as his shoulder snaps. Robin falls to the ground yelling, curled around it as his legs shiver. It’s not broken. Just dislocated.

He knows how to deal with this, snapping it into place with another agonizing scream. The cell is filled only with a wet panting after that, Robin twitching and hugging it. Then he’s stumbling to his feet. There has to be someone. This can’t fail. Maybe someone will hear him screaming.

The next time he throws himself at the wall, he bangs his head again. Robin’s skull bounces back, his body collapsing into a tangle of limbs on the cold stone. He’s left blinking blood out of his eyes, doubtless from his forehead. Robin licks his lips and tastes copper, shivering there. Tears cut through the blood, Robin curling further into himself. Each sob makes his body spasm, trying to hold himself because there is nobody else to. Skinny arms are no match for the warmth of another human body. Robin tries to remember what it felt like, Slade’s hand against his face, Star’s body pressed against his, Beast Boy giving him an enthusiastic hug.

All he feels is ice. Maybe it’s because Beast Boy is a corpse now, and his touch is icy. Maybe it’s because Slade’s soul froze over years ago.

Slade isn’t coming for him. Except—Robin doesn’t want that. _I hate Slade_.

It’s not a feeling, doesn’t _feel_ in Robin’s chest like his own emotions do. Instead it’s a principle, a thought he knows that’s supposed to be true, one he’s supposed to live by. _I don’t want Slade anywhere near me_. The thought is far away, dissociated from his mind as if across an underwater acre, fuzzy in his mental vision. Robin wants someone near him. Someone—anyone, anything. Anything at all. He can take anything, would take anyone, except—

That _can’t_ be true. He can’t want Slade. Except maybe he did, wanted him all along just like Slade said, learned to like him, to want him. Robin knows he hates him, but all feeling has been carved out of his chest to be replaced by the slithering blackness. All but the need for someone near him.

_Slade knows you’re a failure. Slade doesn’t want you. Slade is finished with you_. Why would Slade want him. Robin had failed, failed to be a hero, failed to save his friends, failed to get away; failed everything that he had been supposed to do. There’s nothing left, just like there’s nothing where he is.

_You’re worthless, Robin_, Slade whispers, and another spasm of sobs wracks Robin’s body.

“Please,” Robin whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

_Oh, little Robin. Do you really think that matters? We all know you’re not good for anything at all._

“Please. Please, I’ll try, I’ll be better—”

A long claw scratching its way down his back, grabbing at the wrist of his dislocated arm. _Even if you tried_, it whispers, _you wouldn’t be good enough_.

“No!” Robin tries to twitch away between gasping sobs that wrack his small form. “No, no, please—” He doesn’t know what he’s begging for. Something. Anything.

_Even Batman didn’t want you. That’s why he let me have you, Robin_. Robin can see Slade’s eye in front of him, gleaming blue in light that is not there. Sharp teeth are bared in a smile, lips too red to be covered in anything but blood.

_But I’m finished with you. I’ve learned why he let you go so easily._

“No,” Robin begs again. There should be more words he can use to plead with Slade but there are only so many that he can think of in the blur of pain. _You know he’s right. He’s right. He’s right._

_Why does it hurt so much?_

It’ll be easier when he knows that he’s all alone. That everyone’s left him. Robin’s going to die in here. Slade’s—Slade’s left him. For good.

_You’re going to die, _Beast Boy tells him. _It’s what you deserve. You’ll be with us now, Robin._

“I’m sorry,” Robin rasps. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. So, so sorry.” Robin stares sightlessly into the blackness, shivering. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I just—he threatened you.” He looks up at his friends. “I wanted to save you, you know? And maybe I did. Because he threatened to kill all of you, but there’s some left.” A hitching sob. “I could have saved you. I should’ve been better. I didn’t—didn’t know this would happen. I was too stupid to see it. I’m so sorry.”

Robin shivers into sobbing, train of thought cut off. His face buries itself between his knees, the stone cold against his back. There is no way out. Nobody who is coming for him.

The cold of his collar is found where his shoulders curve in to hold himself. Robin sniffs, tries to find warmth between the planes of his body, with middling success. There is just the collar to keep him warm, and it doesn’t work.

_SLADE’S_.

Robin can see the engraving as clear as day, Slade smirking behind him in the mirror, the silver letters outlined on the black leather around his throat. _Slade’s_. Slade’s. Maybe—

His hand goes to his throat, a finger tracing the cold metal. The letters are still there, woven into the fabric so they wouldn’t come off. SLADE’S. Slade’s belonging, Slade’s toy, Slade’s thing—

“If you don’t want me,” he asks empty air, “why did you give me a collar?” Something trickles down his cheek, fingers clenching down around the leather. It’s rough under the tips, textured yet smooth, rubbing against his neck. Familiar. Nobody responds. Nothing, because Robin is all alone.

Because he’s been left?

Slade has left him—but has he? Really and truly and forever—

That should terrify him, that Slade might return to him, the light of the door cutting through the darkness like so many other times but at least then, even _then_, he had been there. Robin hadn’t been alone here. The collar—the collar means that Robin isn’t alone. Won’t be alone forever, because Slade is coming _back_. He has to come back, because he put a collar on him. It’s the only thing that makes sense, the only thing he didn’t tear off of him when he threw him in here.

It’s a—it has to be real. It _has _to. It’s hope, it’s meaning, it’s something in all the utter blackness to hold onto. Even if it’s on him, claiming him—Robin remembers so vividly how he loathed it, tried to slice it off of him, but all he can think about is how Slade can’t leave him. Even if he decides to kill him, end him, he’ll have to come back for his collar. Robin will see him then.

He won’t die alone.

* * *

There is food in the corner.

Robin realizes it when he stumbles across it when pacing, almost tripping over the tray. Before he can stop himself he’s scooping it off the filthy floor, putting it back on the tray, shoveling it into his mouth with his fingers. His stomach screams at him not to eat it so quickly but he can’t help it. Robin _needs _the sustenance. It doesn’t taste good—the dirt gave it a gritty flavor, but it fills him up. Robin hoards it in his sitting corner. It’s gone in seconds, Robin licking the last of it off his fingertips with panting need.

The acid burns in his throat. Robin is throwing it up later, one hand fixed against the cold stone as he heaves everything he’s eaten into the corner where he pisses. The smell doesn’t help his stomach, the tears from his gag reflex wetting his cheeks. It only smells worse as he curls up later, wishing he’d been smart enough to save it. Not to be helplessly impulsive—the real Robin wouldn’t have done that. But this is the broken, worthless Robin.

He’s a Robin Slade is feeding. A Robin Slade has put a collar on, a Robin Slade hasn’t left. Not entirely. Robin curls in on himself, shivering, wondering if it means he’s still worth anything. Slade has to think he’s worth something, help him be worth something. Robin won’t be left all alone; won’t be abandoned. Not like Bruce abandoned him, or his friends have abandoned him—

_You drove us away_, Starfire tells him. Her big green eyes are serious, but anger lurks beneath them—anger that makes Robin shift away to avoid it. _We tried to help you, but you did not let us._

“I know,” Robin says miserably. She’s right. He’d failed them, and they know better than to let him back in, or to help him. It’s Robin’s fault they’ve all left him. Maybe he should be grateful that Slade hasn’t; Slade is the only person taking enough pity on him to still feed him, to give him a collar.

* * *

It’s curled up against the cool wall, drifting in and out of unconsciousness, that Robin’s hand first snakes down between his thighs. They’re skinnier than he remembers; he’s still not fed much (still doesn’t know where the food comes from). The insides of them shiver a little under cold fingers, but after pressing them under his arms, the problem goes away. Fingers play at his own cock, Robin staring off into the darkness. It’s not as if there’s anything else to do—

Still. He hasn’t touched himself for . . . so long, maybe sometimes in the beginning, but never since Slade had started fucking him. That was so long ago. It’s hard to remember a time where Slade having his way with him wasn’t normal; just because it’s not happening now doesn’t mean it’s not still the way the world _is_. Slade taught him that.

Starfire is there, a hand brushing against his cheek. Robin smiles at her, tilts his head to match hers.

Suddenly Star’s expression is hard and cold. Robin’s hand comes away from between his thighs to reach for her. Star’s recoiling, a look of utter disgust on her face that makes Robin’s stomach turn. “Star—”

_Slade has been in you, has he not? What did he do to you? I know you liked it, Robin._

“N-no!” Robin reaches for her, pushing himself further. “No! It’s not like that—Star, he made me, I promise—”

Her disappointed face fades away in front of him.

“Kori,” Robin whimpers. “Koriand’r!”

The name echoes back to him in the empty cell. There is nothing. Robin is alone.

He’s not hard anymore, but he can almost feel Slade’s calloused hand teasing him into hardness, a low, laughing voice in his ear telling him what a pretty _whore _he makes for Slade. It’s the man’s murmuring that Robin falls asleep to in his ear, shivering on the cold stone floor.

* * *

Robin comes in his fist with a gasping lilt to his tones, shuddering on the floor and jerking himself through his orgasm. His hand moving is the only sound in the room. He wipes the come of on the floor as best he can, gingerly. The high from his orgasm disappears, and then there is nothing. No sense of anything but blankness, of loneliness. In the last seconds it had felt almost as if he’d had something, not been quite so alone imagining Kori jerking him off, but now—

Not even the phantoms of his mind are there to keep him company. Robin knows they aren’t real, can’t be real. That he’s going insane here, all alone. But he can’t let himself believe that. He has to remember that he’s not alone. Won’t be alone forever.

Slade put a collar on him. That means he’s not going to leave him. He’s not allowed to leave him. All Robin has to do is—wait? What does Slade want? It’s Robin’s fault for trying to escape, for failing. This could have been avoided, this is all him, this is all the horror of his stupidity.

Robin doesn’t know where the door is. He lost his bearings – hours, days, weeks ago, and there’s no sign of where the door is, not even a handle. Instead, he’s left leaning against part of what could be the door.

“I’m sorry,” Robin pleads. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t—“ His breath hitches, and Robin tries to pretend that it’s not fear. “Please don’t leave me here. I don’t want you to leave me here. I can’t—I can’t . . . I won’t be okay. I have to . . . will you please . . . please don’t leave me here. Please.”

The begging is pathetic, Robin supposes. That’s what he’s been told as he sobs in little halting breaths against the would-be door. It’s cold. Robin wonders if he can go back to sleep, even as he mumbles apologies against the stone. He hurts. The hurt is aching deep inside him, so rough he’s sure it’s never going to return. This is _it_. It feels like the end, like hell, with nothing in front of him but more misery. Robin wonders if he should just stop eating and drinking. Fade away in the darkness, to be with the ghosts of his friends.

But Slade put a collar on him. Slade is coming back for him. Robin _knows _it. That’s how it has to be; there is nothing else that makes sense.

His hand travels up to tug at the collar, rubbing the worn leather under his fingers. It reminds him that he’s real. That Slade is coming back for him. Everything is going to be okay. Robin isn’t alone.

Something clinks to the ground. Something feels _wrong_. Robin’s eyes widen in the absolute darkness as he feels nothing around his neck. The collar-the collar’s fallen to the ground. Robin can’t breathe, can’t think. His fingers dart over the dirty ground, collecting even more dirt that he can feel digging under his fingernails. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the collar, because if he doesn’t have the collar—

He isn’t Slade’s. Slade might not want him. Robin needs Slade, needs him, needs to be wanted, needs to have someone come for him. If he doesn’t have the collar, he’s all alone. Worthless, but worse, _unwanted_.

Shallow gasps fill it as Robin drops to his knees, feeling around on the floor. Covering every last inch with every part of him, making sure it’s not there. It has to be—

Robin’s hand closes around the soft leather, the cold chain, and he sobs. It jerks him forward, makes his whole body shudder. He holds it in both hands, makes sure it’s real. Robin tries to buckle it back around his throat, but part of the leather had worn away, and there’s nothing for it. It’s fallen—fallen off of his body, worthless and unwanted. It can’t have, but it _has_, and Robin isn’t sure why Slade would want him back if he doesn’t have the collar on. It might make Slade think Robin was being bad, that he’d taken it off—

Slade has to come back. He has to. The alternative is Robin dying here, something he can barely fathom. It makes no sense, either, to put a collar on something and not come back to collect it afterwards. That’s the detective work he has to do, to figure out if Slade wants him still. Surely he _does_; Robin still has his body, after all, and even if he’s bad and got his collar taken off him, Slade can still pin him down and use him to his heart’s content. That’s _worth_, meaning, that’s something. A reason for Slade not to leave him here all alone.

This is worse than Robin could have imagined. He knows nothing makes sense now, but it seems like he’s always thought this way, as if nothing at all has changed. Someday, long before, he had been Robin the Detective. Robin the Boy Wonder. Robin where he had friends, and the world made proper sense. Now, he doesn’t know who he is or who he’s supposed to be. Nothing makes sense at all.

_The world is not supposed to make sense_, Raven tells him. _This is simply what you deserve._

“Did I not deserve it before?” Robin whispers. “What did I do before?”

_You neglected us_, Starfire says coldly. _You preferred _Slade _over us. You got what you wanted._

“No! I never wanted—how could you think . . . I ever wanted _this_?”

_You still want to know_, Cyborg accuses. _You want to know things about him. You want to know who he is more than you want to think about us._

“That’s not true! I-I miss you, and I . . . I want . . . I want you back, and I’m sorry—”

_And I’m dead_, Gar interrupts. _How’s your ‘sorry’ look now?_

“What do you want from me?” Robin whispers.

_I want you to _suffer_, _Raven hisses. _I want you to suffer for what you’ve done_.

“I am suffering,” Robin begs. “I’ve suffered—suffered so much, isn’t it—”

_We’re fucking _dead, Gar snarls. His eyes gleam like an animal’s. _You can’t make up for that_.

“I didn’t mean it!” Robin pleads. “I didn’t want this! I didn’t want anyone to die. I never . . .”

There’s only so many ways to say it. To beg for what he wants.

Robin sniffs.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I deserve it, don’t I?”

* * *

The light is like a knife. It cuts through the darkness, cuts through Robin’s skull and sends him keening in the corner, covering his eyes as he curls in on himself. It feels like the skies opened up and the sun is standing in the doorway—the wall that appears to have opened. His eyes ache at him as Robin twitches on the ground, hands clenched over his eyes. He wonders what this is now. Is he dying? Is this the light of heaven? Or is hell bright and painful and hurting him?

Something is loud in his ears, too loud, screaming at him. In seconds, Robin is curled up, a high pitched keen coming from his lips as he tries to hide it. It hurts. He doesn’t know what to do, shivering on the floor.

It seems an eternity before something is pushing at his side. Robin can feel it, cold like ice, letting in only the littlest bit of light between his lids so he can see the shining black of a boot. Slade’s boot.

“Are you real?” Robin whispers.

Slade kicks him.

Robin slams into the wall only inches behind him with a yell. He sees stars, tastes blood in his mouth. It hurts, physically, sharp and real. Nothing like the ache that’s been in him for so long. This can’t be real. Slade can’t really be back for him, not truly—

His hands hold the collar close to his chest, shuddering the whole time. Robin’s eyes are still half closed as he shakily finds his hands and knees and pulls himself closer to the boots that he can see in front of him. He touches them, cold under his fingers. Real. Real? Is Slade here? It feels like a dream, but it hurts too much to be a dream.

Robin’s arms wrap around the boot, shuddering. He can’t let Slade get away this time. Can’t be left.

Robin wouldn’t be able to live if that happened.


	26. XXVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its 12:00 does this count

Robin offers the collar up to him. Slade—Slade’s real. He’s here. This isn’t the Slade that Robin has been seeing, the one that he knows comes from his own mind. This one is bathed in light and warmth and cold and towers above him Robin can’t even bear to look up at him. All he can do is shiver at his feet.

“I-I’m sorry,” Robin whispers. “It broke on its own, I promise, it wasn’t me, please—please don’t—” He’s hyperventilating, trying to get himself under control but failing. “Please—please don’t leave me,” he mumbles, eyes shut. Rough hands take the collar from him, and Robin whimpers. It feels wrong to not have it in his hands or around his neck. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“Huh,” Slade rumbles, and Robin barely understands him.

Seconds later, Robin is scooped up by strong arms. Slade is warm, Robin’s head nestled against his chest, still shuddering with the shock of it all. His eyes shut to the bright lights. He’s not alone. Slade came back for him. After all that time, Slade came back for him. Robin’s not entirely worthless, can’t be entirely useless. Slade came back.

“You’re filthy,” Slade says, and Robin picks up easily on the strong undercurrent of disgust in his voice. Robin’s hands dig into Slade’s black shirt, even as a whispered _I’m sorry_ makes its way out of his mouth. He’s nestled against Slade’s heartbeat, shivering. It’s warm. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Robin’s _not alone_.

He’s unceremoniously dumped on cold tile, eyes still adjusting to the light. Robin shudders, cold as ice. He’s reminded of how naked he is as the cold air chills his thighs and back.

“Get cleaned up,” Slade orders.

Robin blinks, trying to raise himself on shaking limbs. He’s in a bathroom, but this time, it’s much bigger – nicer, warmer. The shower is at least twice the size, feeding into a bath that’s even bigger. Robin can’t think of what to do, instead staring up at Slade without sound.

“Do you hear me, boy? Get cleaned up.” A hand yanks back Robin’s head by the hair, and he’s curling away from the light in the eyes as he’s forced to look up. Slade looks just the same as he always has, grizzled hair and lined face and bright blue eye—just the same, even, as the man in the cell. Robin doesn’t know where to start. What to do. He’s still shaking from the shock of it, wondering if he’s still dreaming.

He clings.

“Stupid slut,” Slade snaps. Robin’s lifted in by his hair, whimpering, and collapses in a pile of bones in the tub. Second later, he’s squealing and trying to get out of the icy stream of the shower. Dirt and blood streams down his face, obscuring his vision. It swirls around the drain, Robin shuddering. The water hurts his eyes as they stay open to stare at Slade, still in black, a displeased expression on his face. Robin blinks at him, water heavy in his lashes. The water slowly turns lukewarm, and then warm, and then hot. Robin swears he can see the steam rising off of it as it burns his skin red.

When most of the filth is washed out, Slade plugs the drain with a flick of his hand. Scalding water fills from the bottom of the tub. Robin watches it with half interest, his hands tingling from their previously frozen state.

Slade grabs Robin’s chin. He sits by the tub, pulling Robin over as he catches himself on the rim.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three,” Robin says, after a second’s pause. 

“And who am I?”

“Slade,” Robin replies instantly. “ . . . Master.”

Slade makes a low _hn _noise. A hand puts the soap between Robin’s fingers. He stares at it, slowly. This will not make him clean. He’s learned that it won’t make him, not _really_. 

He still rubs it over his skin, feeling it strip away the top layer of filth. Robin looks up at Slade to make sure he’s doing okay.

Slade raises a brow. He waves his hand in a _go ahead _motion.

Robin hurries. He feels stripped down in front of Slade’s watchful eye, slowly bringing it on top of him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Slade snaps. A hand digs into Robin’s scalp, the soap snapped from his hands. It’s scrubbed furiously down his back, Robin going with the pull as it goes down the backs of his legs. It’s over in what feels like seconds. Then something cold and wet is being put on his scalp.

Robin stares with squinted eyes at Slade through the shampoo lather building on his head, thanks to Slade’s fingers, rough. It’s easy to just go with what he wants, leaning back even when the soap gets in his eyes and he has to blink it away. Robin is giving no warning—one second he’s staring at Slade’s intense face, and the next, he’s spluttering underwater with Slade’s hand on the back of his head. Robin thrashes, trying desperately not to let the soap in his eyes or in his mouth. His lungs are burning before he can push himself up again, spluttering.

The soap brings tears to his eyes. Blood and dirt washes out of his hair with the shampoo, Robin blinking up at Slade.

He coughs.

Slade stands up. “Get out.” He pulls one of the towels off of the wall, holding it in his hand and waiting to throw it to Robin.

Robin takes a long time to hoist himself out of the warm water, standing there dripping it onto the floor. It puddles around his feet, Robin shivering. The towel lands on top of his head.

Slade’s already walking out when Robin starts to pull it properly around his shoulders. He hurries after him, leaving wet footprints slapping on the tile. The bathroom opens into what must be Slade’s bedroom, big and fanciful. It seems at odds with Slade’s rough exterior, somehow, with the huge bed and lush curtains.

“Here.” Slade snaps his fingers like Robin is a dog. Robin comes like one.

The top drawer opens. Robin doesn’t see what’s in it—but he does see what Slade pulls out of it. A dark, silver-lined collar is in his hand—seconds later, Slade is leaning in, fastening it around Robin’s neck. It feels secure as it goes on, as Slade’s tightens it. Warm. Comforting. A reminder that Slade isn’t going to leave him. Because he came back for Robin, after all this time.

SLADE’S, it says, and Robin knows that it’s true. His toes dig into the fuzzed carpet as he traces the letters with his fingers.

“Thank you,” Robin says meekly.

Slade’s brows raise. “On the bed.”

Robin drops the towel on the floor. It pools at his feet, and he gets slowly onto the bed, still naked. Facing Slade.

The man’s eye gleams. Robin shudders at how dangerous it is. Slade is peeling off his shirt, throwing it on the side of the bed that doesn’t contain Robin. The powerful muscles flex and stretch and Robin can see them moving without fabric blocking his view.

Slade’s hand slides to his belt. With a few flicks of his fingers, it’s unbuckled, hanging to the side. Robin can see the erection hard in his briefs already, Slade’s eye fixed on him.

It takes only seconds until Slade’s on top of him, hair curtaining Robin’s face, the hot body almost on top of him. Wonderfully, it’s human contact, and Robin can’t help but lean into it. It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. The only important thing is that Slade is here and touching him and Robin is not alone.

Robin almost yells as Slade bites down on his nipple, sucks at his skin. Fingers bruise his arms, nails digging crescents in that Robin is sure will bleed. There is no gentleness in Slade’s rough hewn form, only stony muscles, only _want_.

He jams himself in without even saliva. Robin screams, pathetically, arching under him. His body moves up to meet Slade’s warm one, and then he’s pushed down by more bruising fingers on his shoulders. Slade’s fingers seem to be everywhere, pressing and pinching and prodding, making Robin dizzy with so much sensation. Robin whines, but nothing changes. Slade is too far gone for that.

Slade’s cock hammers into him. Robin’s body bounces with every painful thrust, tears beading in his eyes and trickling down his face. Slade’s tearing him open, pushing into his guts and making them bleed. It slicks Robin’s thighs.

Slade growls in his ear, wordless and primal.

Robin shudders in response. Slade moves further, faster, merciless. It hurts. Robin jostles against the bed. It seems to blur in his mind, starts to become nothing. He registers Slade coming inside him, because he can feel the wet heat of it, can hear the man’s cock slick as it moves in and out of him.

_How is he still hard?_

It jams in again and again, too big to take, wet and dry and hot and cold. Robin’s pushed as the tides, going limp in Slade’s bruising grip, letting him have his way. He’s not alone. Slade is here.

Robin is being useful.

It hurts.

It all hurts.

But Robin is being _useful_. He is _here_.

Slade comes inside him again.

Robin’s not _alone_.

* * *

Another small cry is wrenched from his body as the bed shakes. Robin aches everywhere, the bed underneath him and his own thighs sopping with Slade’s seed. The rest of it is still pooled inside Robin. He doesn’t remember how long it went or how many times Slade came—too many. But now Slade seems satisfied to throw a towel over the mess (and thus Robin) and undress the rest of the way.

Maybe it’s his bedtime.

“Clean up,” Slade growls, and Robin stumbles to his knees. The ache is even more prominent, even more vicious. A small keen of pain slips past his lips. He feels the gush of come out of him before it’s hot against his thighs, and Robin smears it on the towel, hands shaking. Slade had been as a beast, tearing and taking. Robin had been half sure he was going to die from the viciousness of it. He presses the towel against the bed, but it does next to nothing. Robin doesn’t know how to make it any better, so he puts out a small foot to stand on the floor, ignoring his knocking knees.

“You,” Slade mutters, “are going back to your room.”

Robin can feel all the blood rushing out of his face. Slade grabs his arm, and Robin digs his heels in without thinking. Shaggy hair flickers in front of his face as he shakes his head, shakes it harder. Anything to make Slade _know_. “No! Please! No—no, no, no! Master!”

“Your _old _room,” Slade clarifies. His grip tightens. Robin goes limp in it, sure there will be bruises tomorrow.

“No!” Robin shakes his head. His breath is catching in his chest as he starts to sob. “No, no please, I can’t—please don’t leave me alone—master, please, I promise I’ll be good I promise, just please don’t leave me not again please don’t not again I can’t—please—it can’t happen I won’t be okay I can’t live I just—”

Pain blazes across his cheek. It’s old but familiar. Robin’s not alone. Slade is hurting him. Robin’s falling back into the soft bed, his cheek stinging of Slade’s knuckles.

“Don’t throw a tantrum. Beg properly for what you want.”

“’M sorry,” Robin whimpers. He’s on his knees in a second, staring up at Slade. “Please don’t—” Another half-sob— “Please don’t leave me.”

Slade grunts.

Robin can almost read the expression on his face as irritated concession. Slade rolls his eye. Robin stares up hopefully.

Slade walks over slowly to grabs something from a drawer. Then he’s crouching down next to Robin, doing something to his collar he can’t see. Something cold clinks against Robin’s neck, and Slade’s hand pulls back into Robin’s view with something in its palm. Leather, and Robin feels the soft tug on his collar. He’s left with no option but to crawl after the leash, which Slade latches to a chain he hadn’t noticed before in the wall.

He won’t be leaving. Robin will get to stay, and he won’t be alone. He sighs in relief, eyes flickering almost shut. Slade is undressing fully, moving to go to bed. The floor is fuzzy between Robin’s fingers, and he’s glad of it. It’s softer than stone.

Robin’s not _alone_.

Slade’s here.

* * *

Robin wakes up just as stiff as he has been for the past . . . time. For several seconds he doesn’t bother to open his eyes, only expecting more darkness. It’s surprising to find the amber behind his eyelids, see light when he cracks them open.

It wasn’t a dream.

Robin scrambles to his hands and knees. He’s still naked, and the carpet has left red and white marks in his flesh. The room is pleasantly warm, and the light is on. The chain clinks as Robin moves. He’s able to get to his feet without it being too uncomfortable, staring around—

Slade’s gone.

He’s not here.

He’s left.

Robin yells, jolting forward so that his collar catches his jugular. He ignores the choking, staring desperately around to find where Slade is. He could be lurking in the shadows, he could be hiding—

There are two doors. Both are closed, both with darkness. Robin’s eyes widen. He screams. He’s screaming. He can’t live like this, he can’t exist like this, he can’t let this happen again, Robin’s clawing at the wall to try to get closer to the door—

Slade walks out of the bathroom, zipping up his fly. His brow’s raised, face almost off guard.

“Master,” Robin gasps. He’s going a little limp from the effort, pawing at the collar’s constriction and stepping back.

“What the fuck was that?” Slade snaps. Robin makes himself smaller in apology.

“I’m sorry, Master, please, I just—I couldn’t—be . . . alone again . . .”

Slade’s eye flickers closed. He looks like he’s getting a headache. The expression seems familiar. Robin doesn’t want to think about it.

Slade sighs, but he doesn’t punish him. Robin sinks back onto the carpet, staring up at him. Slade’s already dressed, looking strangely . . . casual, even in semiformal wear. The pressed shirt is rolled up to his elbows, the top buttons undone, khakis worn in.

“Can I have some clothes?” Robin whispers.

“No.” Slade crosses the room, rifling through the top drawer of his dresser. He pulls out a sidearm, which goes under a suit jacket. “You’ll earn them.”

Robin stares at the ground. He feels small. Overwhelmingly glad not to be alone. No longer haunted by ghosts—things that seem so real to him, even now. This is what he gets. This is his lot. Robin knows that now.

Knows there’s no point in fighting it, in fighting Slade. Slade is terrifying, but it’s still better to obey, to throw oneself to his mercy than to fight back. Robin is tired. Every part of him aches, from his mind to his soul.

There is nowhere to run, not chained like he is.

* * *

In the end, Slade grabs the tail end of the leash and Robin’s dragged down long, luxurious stairs into a dining room. He’s not given clothes, naked and vulnerable in front of long windows looking out on mountainous scenery. Everywhere seems deserted around them. Robin wonders where he is. He doesn’t ask, too gratefully devouring the food the Slade puts in front of him.

“May I—”

“You will take what I _give you_,” Slade says coldly. Robin shrinks.

He does not ask for more of anything.

* * *

Slade doesn’t seem to do much, now, even though before he had seemed to work tirelessly. He sprawls on the couch like a lazy lion, Robin curled on the edge of it. He’s still naked. There’s nothing to be done, _yet_, to “earn” his clothing. Whatever Slade means by that. Robin never quite feels full after meals, but he doesn’t go hungry, either. Training doesn’t resume.

It seems that he’s found a small purgatory, something small in the world. Slade still uses him, of course—that’s Robin’s lot too, taking Slade until warmth blooms between his thighs or until Slade’s finished with his body. Robin doesn’t feel quite human, quite all there.

_I wish Cyborg and Starfire were here_.

But they are so far away as to seem like an old, faded photograph rather than old friends he remembers. Something that makes Robin sob on the ground next to Slade’s bed, stifled in the carpet so as not to wake his master.

There is nothing here, nothing but Robin and Slade.


	27. XXVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> usually i don't add extra content warnings, since y'all should've read the fucking tags, but for this chapter i'll make an exception:
> 
> here be graphic depictions of suicide. read accordingly. ye have been warned, twice.

Robin’s on his hands and knees, fists clenching in the sheets so hard his knuckles are white. Every slap of skin on skin has him panting, mouth open slightly with the force of how he rocks. Slade’s been at it for some time. He has abnormal endurance, absurd stamina, though Robin doesn’t have anyone to compare it to.

“You even fuck like a bitch in heat,” Slade hisses. He punctuates his next words with rough thrusts. “You’re my bitch, aren’t you, _hn_?” It’s not a real question. Slade’s just getting off on Robin’s state. But Robin knows the right answer all the same.

“I-I’m your—_bitch_,” he gasps, jerking with the driving force. Slade must be close. He likes to hear the words from Robin’s mouth. A reminder that this is Robin’s lot in life.

A hand grabs the back of Robin’s neck, squeezing. Robin tries to suck in air to no avail, mouth hanging dumbly open.

“Not an uppity little hero,” Slade hisses in his ear. Something beads in Robin’s eyes. No. No, don’t think about it, don’t remember it, don’t let it happen—

Slade’s seed is hot inside him for the fifth time today, stars dancing in front of Robin’s vision, and then he’s released onto the sheets, gasping and leaking. He sucks in air desperately, shivering. Robin’s glad it’s over. Slade steps aside, nonchalant as always.

It takes Robin several seconds to drop to the floor, as tempting as it is to get lost on the sheets. (“No dogs on the bed,” Slade had joked to himself. That had ached somewhere Robin refuses to think about.) He’s tired. It should be almost bedtime, but it’s still light out. Slade likes to stay up too late and sleep in too late, at least . . . now. He still feels stretched.

Once, Slade’s cock had left him sore and bleeding. Now he’s almost always able to take it almost-dry. It makes Robin shudder to think about it. There is still a tear in his eye. He wipes it away.

Slade pulls out his handgun. Robin has been around Slade’s casual use of weapons too long to wonder if it’s going to kill him. If Slade wants to kill him, he will die.

Robin doesn’t want to die. The thought makes him shudder. Makes him _afraid_ in a way he doesn’t remember being before.

“You know what this is?”

“A gun?” Robin tries hesitantly.

Slade snorts. “’A _gun_,’” he mocks. “This is a 40 caliber Smith & Wesson pistol.” He crouches in front of Robin, flicking the chain away with one hand. With one flick of his wrist it’s turned around in his palm, pressed into Robin’s hands.

It’s heavy. This is a weapon that has killed people, Robin knows. It makes him ache.

“Watch.” Slade’s fingers move it on Robin’s hands, disassembling it with practiced, deceptive ease. Robin keeps track of where everything goes as best he can, even if ends with pieces he doesn’t understand in his lap. “You’re going to clean this for me.”

Robin nods.

The training is punishing but it is not difficult. Robin has been trained to learn how things work, how to put them back together after taking them apart. This is just the same, he tells himself. He’s not killing anyone. He’s just helping Slade. Doing what Slade says, like he’s supposed to.

The cleaning process takes a long time. Robin is meticulous, going over every bit of it, ever aware of Slade’s piercing and watchful eye. He polishes it until it shines, using a small kit that Slade keeps in his duffel. Robin tries not to think of what the things he cleans off of it are. When he hands it back, gleaming and reassembled, he hesitantly watches Slade for a reaction.

“That’ll do,” Slade says.

Robin’s heart jumps a little as he does, in a way he likes. That’s something good. That’s something worth being alive for, that bit of praise.

“You’ll be cleaning my weapons,” Slade explains. “I expect them to be absolutely pristine when you’re done with them. You understand?”

“Yes, master,” Robin says obediently. He wants to ask if it’ll earn him clothing, but he doesn’t dare, lest it make his chances lower. Slade is just as unpredictable as ever.

Slade fumbles in his dresser for a few seconds and comes back with a white, slightly wrinkled dress shirt. He throws it at Robin. Robin catches it in shaking hands, looking up at Slade with wide eyes.

“Can I . . . ?”

“Put it on,” Slade orders, and Robin does. It slips over his head, smelling of soap and Slade. The tails of it go halfway down his thighs.

“Thank you, master,” he whispers.

Slade nods, and leaves the room. Robin shifts nervously, fingers twining in the carpet over and over. A piece of it comes out in his hand, and he winces, putting it back. Sticks to digging nails into his palms instead, until the circles are raw. Robin can let him leave now, for a little, before he can’t take it anymore. Slade has left and come back enough that he trusts him, as best he can, to return.

Instead, he stares at the pistol. A weapon of death, lethal in Slade’s hands, cleaned of the blood that had most likely fallen upon it. Robin doesn’t pick it up. Instead, he finds himself slowly rising, holding onto his chained leash so it doesn’t clink. It _just _reaches to the dresser.

Robin doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

(This is a lie. He knows what he’s looking for. He should not be doing this. Every part of him shakes as he opens it.)

It only takes pawing around for a few seconds in Slade’s haphazardly folded shirts for his fingers to hit cold metal. A few rounds of bullets, in his palm.

A weapon, over by the bed.

Robin stares, numb. His hand clenches, feeling the chill. Then it unclenches.

Slade could walk in and find him. Robin could load the gun and shoot him. Slade could die.

He would die.

Robin would be all alone.

The bullets drop into the drawer, any noise caught on the shirts as they’re hastily buried again. Robin can’t bear to look at them. To think about them. This is a cowardly, pathetic, traitorous thing he’s doing. He should do this.

Robin should be a hero, Robin should be anything—

His eyes are wet again. Robin scrubs at them viciously. The chain settles to the floor as Robin sits against the bed once again, next to the gun. Slade had just given him something and Robin is here—

Robin is looking at bullets. Looking for the gun. He’s . . . betraying Slade, isn’t he? Or is this all a test? Or is he just a coward—

His head hurts.

Robin curls up, pushing himself as far under the bed as he can go. It hurts. He can’t think about this.

Doesn’t want to think about this.

Refuses to.

* * *

There’s not much to do. Robin sits, cleans what Slade brings him. He’s not allowed off the chain, even to be fucked, even to be fed from Slade’s knee. Robin is so aware he could bite back as Slade’s fingers slip into his mouth to feed him, but he remembers the ache of hunger. Knows what Slade would do to him would be worse than his humiliation. So he eats it, and is thankful.

Slade doesn’t mention the rumpled clothes. He knows, doesn’t he? There’s no way he doesn’t, and even after a night passes, Robin doesn’t feel safe. He’s done something wrong. Slade is going to be there to punish him any minute, any second—but it doesn’t happen. Not yet. But it’s going to happen.

Robin shivers. He’s waiting to be punished like he deserves. This isn’t good, he didn’t hide it, it was all a trap—

Slade is going to hurt him for this.

* * *

Robin wakes up from sleeping against the edge of the couch. His knees are bunched up under Slade’s shirt, keeping his decency at least mostly intact. Something startled him, and he rubs the side of his face, trying to figure out what it was with a crinkled brow. It doesn’t seem right.

Slade’s not in the room. Robin’s pulse pounds a tempo in his chest as he looks around, eyes flickering. Robin can hear him, but the chain doesn’t let him go near, even as he tugs on it.

Footsteps come through the hall, Robin’s eyes flicking upwards. He’d thought Slade was napping. The man is so silent—

Two men enter the sitting room, without a care for how loud they’re talking. One is Slade. One makes Robin cower a little into the couch, eyes narrowed. This is someone he doesn’t know. It’s almost surprising, to see someone new.

“—on some new project—good Lord.” Critical eyes turn to Robin. The man is older than Slade, but he talks to him like he knows him. He’s still by no means weak, muscle bound and much larger than Robin.

“Bloody hell,” he says. Robin’s eyes flick to Slade. He doesn’t know what to do—

“I’ve been busy,” Slade says dryly. He leans against the doorframe, as if daring his friend to take a look inside.

“This is a _child_.” The man turns. “Slade, have you gone _mad_?”

Slade bristles, and Robin bristles too. There’s something about to happen whenever Slade is angry. “I told you my plans for an apprentice. A work in progress, I’ll admit, but coming along just fine.”

“I didn’t—I wouldn’t have said the same thing if you told me you were going to chain it to the wall. I assumed you were going to pick up one of those HIVE brats, not . . . kidnap someone off the street.”

“The former leader of the Titans, actually,” Slade says smugly.

Robin thinks of the—

Robin does not think of the Titans.

Does _not_.

The new man moves towards Robin, crouching a little to his height. Robin just stares, fingers twisting in the cotton of his shirt.

“What’s your name?”

“His name is Renegade,” Slade says shortly. The other man’s face snaps around to glare at him.

“This is insanity. You think half the League aren’t going to be coming after you for kidnapping one of their own?”

“Can’t come after me if they don’t find me.” Slade steps past the other man, one hand grabbing on to Robin’s leash. Robin’s dragged over as Slade sits down. His thighs fall open under the shirt. Robin shuts them. His face burns.

He feels like nothing. Slade is not the only person here to witness his failure. To know that he once lead the Titans, to know that . . . to _see _him.

“Were you short on pants?” Slade’s friend asks dryly. Robin pales a little, feels sick. Wraps his arms around himself in a facsimile of warmth. Slade’s fingers play with his leash.

“You know some boys just don’t learn, Billy,” Slade says, a brow raised. The other man’s lips are pursed, and he looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

“I don’t even want to know what you’re doing with him,” Billy says. Slade smirks. Robin wants to cry. “I’m not going to get you out of this, understand? I’m out. I had nothing to do with this.”

Slade rolls his eye. “I know what I’m doing.” The leash clinks.

A pause.

“This is sick,” Billy mutters under his breath. Slade raises a combative brow. “Where even are your parents, kid?”

The question should be rhetorical, but Robin’s mouth opens anyways.

“Dead,” he whispers.

Then he sobs.

The sobs don’t stop coming. Robin shakes, arms still curled around himself, half his body pressed against Slade’s warmth. His parents are dead. Why is he crying? He knows his parents are dead. That this is the end of them. That they haven’t been alive for years. Robin has been all alone for years.

What would they think of him now?

Could they even look at him now?

A sharp yank to his collar, and Robin is face to face with Slade’s stormy blue eye. He’s done wrong, he knows it, he’s shaking. An apology or two slips from his lips, and he would push himself away but there is nowhere to run with the leash snug around his neck, snug in Slade’s fingers.

“Give the boy a break,” Billy says. He sounds tired. “And if you’re lucky, I won’t be telling Addie about this.”

Slade snorts. Robin wonders who Addie is, why she keeps being mentioned. Slade got a letter from her. She might not like Robin.

Robin doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“Addie can do fuck all about it,” Slade counters. He narrows his eye anyways.

“Bet she’ll have something to say, though,” Bill needles. The man seems to push it away, though, with a sigh.

“Doesn’t she always,” Slade says dryly. It’s almost jarring, seeing him like this, almost . . . friendly.

Still dangerous.

One hand still twined around Robin’s leash. A tug. “You want to see what he can do?”

Robin’s eyes widen. His face burns a little, and he curls up closer against the back of the couch—against Slade.

“Not particularly.”

Slade shrugs. “Have it your way. What are you here for, anyways?”

Robin is glad he’s not going to be forced to service Slade in front of this strange man. That would have been what it was—

It’s all Robin is good for, all Slade really uses him for. A toy. The heel of his hand rubs viciously against his eye.

“There’s been some kind of bloody dust up. The Brotherhood and the Doom Patrol are at it again. Your name”—Billy looks pointedly at Slade—“was thrown around.”

Slade seems unconcerned. “It usually is.”

“Somewhat violently,” Billy adds. “You have more than the Bats after you. This is bloody insane, Slade.”

“So you’ve said.” Slade stands up, and Robin is left bereft of the warmth next to him. He curls in on himself under the shirt. This should be more humiliating, more degrading. Instead he just feels numb.

“Did you plan this?” Billy accuses. “Or is this one more thing you think you can handle on your own?”

“Give me a fucking break. I know what I’m doing. I’ve stayed alive this long, haven’t I?”

“Not without a damn bit of help, you haven’t.”

“Lot of help you’ve been _lately_,” Slade grumbles.

“You’ve been missing. Lots of people wondering what you’ve been up to.”

“I told you. Training my apprentice.”

Billy glances in Robin’s direction. “That’s not an apprentice, Slade, that’s a whore.”

Robin’s face burns. He feels the heat climbing up from his neck, to his cheeks, shuddering in his fingertips. It makes him want to cry.

“What I do with my _apprentice_ is my business,” Slade says coolly.

Robin rubs his face furiously, desperate not to show weakness. But he’s already weak. So, so _weak_.

The tears are even hotter than his flaming cheeks.

“And what you _should _do is mine. Give him back and end this madness.”

“If Adeline sent you, Billy, you can tell her to go back to hell.”

“I’m here on my own damn accord!” Billy’s voice rises. “Because you don’t have to be Addie to know you’re getting in over your head.”

“If you’re going to keep sounding like a broken record, you can feel free to leave at any time.” Slade’s voice is so cold it makes Robin shudder.

“Apologies for being stupid enough to assume you’d listen,” Billy snaps. Robin wants to yell at him, to tell him not to talk to Slade like that. Because it’s going to make Slade angry. Because that’s not what you’re supposed to do.

But Slade doesn’t hurt him for his insolence. Instead, he storms out, Slade’s glare following him.

“The hell are you looking at?” Slade snaps, and Robin’s eyes flick quickly to the side of the rug, curling up even deeper in on himself. The eye still skewers him. “That reminds me—”

“I looked for the bullets,” Robin blurts out. Slade looms over him like a smoking volcano, and Robin can’t think of anything worse than making him more irritable. “In the dresser, I looked for them after you left, I’m sorry, I barely touched them, master I’m sorry—”

“Was wondering if you were going to admit to it.” Slade’s brow raises in slight interest. “All right, then. Get up. Stand in front of the window.”

Robin sobs a little. He’s going to be punished. It’s what he deserves for going against Slade. His knees shake a little, and he tries to steady them.

Behind him, he hears the telltale noise of Slade’s belt being unbuckled. At least this isn’t the whip—the awful, awful whip he still remembers from so long ago. It’s still all he can do to stop himself from shaking so hard he falls over, spreading his legs to get better balance.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against the glass, looking out onto mountains and snow and ice, pointed and neverending. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Fifteen for not staying put,” Slade rumbles. “It would’ve been fifty if you hadn’t admitted it.”

Robin had done the right thing.

He still sobs a little. A calloused hand pulls the fabric of the shirt aside so Robin can feel the cool air against his ass and thighs. He can almost feel the pain in preparation for being beaten.

Blood leaks from his lip when the leather comes down with a vicious _crack_. Tears leak from his eyes, squeezed down his cheeks as he shudders. There is no sound. There will be—he’ll start crying out soon enough, he knows. There was a time when he didn’t.

Robin yells at the second one, shaking like a tree caught in a storm. His face is shoved up against the glass, blood from his lip smearing, turning pink against the cold glass. It hurts. He’s so tired, doesn’t want to endure any more of this—

“Please—”

“Take it like a fucking man,” Slade growls, disgust laced in his tone. The leather snaps again. Robin bucks against it, hissing. More tears are squeezed from his eyes. He hurts. Why does he hurt?

It comes down again, and again, in crimson stripes against his thighs, Robin jerking and sobbing with each hit. He can feel them crisscrossing, turning red. This isn’t whipping. It could be worse. It could be so much worse.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I promise I won’t do it again, I’m sorry.”

Slade’s counting and the snap of the leather fill his ears and the agony is all he can feel, flinching before it even hits the skin in expectation. It always hurts more each time than he thinks it will, as if he’s forgetting the pain in between strikes. It hurts.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, and saliva slicks the window, but there is nobody listening. Robin is even more incoherent than he feels, shaking like a leaf about to fall to the ground.

“Fifteen,” Slade says, and the leather stops.

Robin nearly sobs with relief—

The leather _cracks _in his ear and Robin yells again, collapsing against the glass, thighs and ass burning.

“And extra for wasting my time,” Slade says nastily. The sound of his belt being buckled makes Robin shudder. His knees shake. They give out sends before his thighs do, sending him tumbling to the floor, feeling sick. There’s a little yelp as he lands on his ass which _burns _like nothing else, a whimper as he readjusts himself.

“I’m sorry,” Robin repeats, to no avail.

* * *

Slade leaves him alone.

The tears are still smearing on his face. Robin can still feel a few beading in his eyes. He’s not quite sure what they’re for, at the moment. They could be for anything.

The things he’s not thinking about.

Robin stares at the wall, at the rich pattern, rough to the touch. Meaningless. He’s still helpless, still bolted to the wall in the living room. He wonders where Slade is. It doesn’t matter, not really. Robin wishes he could follow him.

It would feel more _right_, sometimes, to be able to follow him. Like something that should be, rather than this tepid loneliness that means little to nothing. He’s splayed out awkwardly, pushing the shirt away so that nothing touches the area that Slade had been beating. It stings and aches and he feels overwhelmingly like a child being disciplined.

Bruce didn’t hurt him like _this_. Bruce only hit him when he was angry, or when he deserved it.

Well, Robin deserved this. Slade says he does, he’s disobeyed Slade, he’s supposed to obey Slade—where is Slade? Slade should be here, with him. Robin’s meant to be with him, but he tugs on the chain and it goes taut against the wall. It’s not right.

No. He can take this. He’s supposed to be a man. Isn’t that what Slade said? What Slade wants of him? Robin’s hand shakes, and the chain shakes too. There’s something building in him, building too fast and too hard and too painfully. Something that’s been lost for the past weeks, and all he can remember is the man’s voice—Slade’s friend, in a lulling Canadian accent—

_Where even are your parents?_

Robin shakes, a little. For a second he can’t even remember, grasping for something that slips cruelly between his fingers. Mercifully, between his fingers, because it hits him like the floor coming up after a fall, shattering him so roughly he can almost hear the _crack_ like Slade’s leather belt. They’re dead. They’re all dead. His friends, his parents. Bruce has abandoned him.

His friends hate him.

This is what he gets.

Robin chokes out another sob. It hurts. It all hurts, too much, but too dull, too, like a bullet caught in Kevlar but still shattering bone. He wants that sharpness, shattering inside him. Proving he’s real.

At least he’s here. At least Slade wants him. That’s what he wants, isn’t it?

Slade wants him, doesn’t he?

Robin’s wrist twists around the chain so tight that his fingers turn white, then red They tingle with blood loss. Bad. Not unpleasant. There are worse things to feel, as Robin knows too well. As Slade’s taught him. Slade’s taught him a lot of things. Pain, mostly.

Robin really is his pet, crouching naked at his feet. The man saw him, he was seen. Slade said who he was and it hurts, it all hurts, and Robin’s not anyone anymore he’s nothing. Practically an animal. Practically a dog. Practically an object. Slade could’ve made him get on his knees and suck him off right there. Right in front of him, where he could see, where everyone would _know _that Robin was nothing and it would have hurt too much, too terribly to feel but that’s all Robin is now. A vessel for the horrible feelings Slade decides he must endure. Because he must obey Slade, because Slade is there, because Robin belongs to him.

There is a collar. Robin belongs to him. Belongs for all the world to see and know the depths of the humiliating truth. Slade had made sure of that. His master is a cruel man and Robin doesn’t know how to endure it. Doesn’t know if he can, because this is who he _is_, who he will always be.

The chain twists. It hurts his wrist. His fingers. Robin doesn’t want this, he wants to be near Slade. Slade will tell him what to do and maybe that would be okay, to know things and to have them to do and not think about it. Except here he is and it’s all he knows, his parents—

What would they think of him now? Had they expected to give birth to someone who would only become Slade’s? No, that’s how Bruce feels about him, they feel the same way. They would leave him too. They’d hate him, they died and he was supposed to help them, make them proud, and he’s _this_, nothing but this with a collar and a shirt he barely earned and he’s not even good at pleasing Slade.

His fingers are starting to burn. The chain cuts into them, bloodless. Robin wonders how long it would take to do permanent damage. Maybe Slade would abandon him then. The idea makes Robin shiver, makes the tears burn hotter down his face. It would be what he’d deserve for being a failure. Slade is all he has and Robin can’t live like this, can’t belong to him, doesn’t know if he can—

The chain leaves marks in his wrists. A funny thing. Useful.

The living room is near the bannister, on a high staircase. More for show than proper use, most likely. Robin wonders when this was built. He wonders how high the chain reaches.

The blessed numbness that comes over him is only one of purpose. His hands shake. There is nothing—this is not something he wants to do. Not something he wants to happen but it hurts, and Slade has left him, and he is a failure to everyone who’s ever believed in him. His parents would loathe him. Robin doesn’t know how he’s supposed to live, to take that. Not sure how he’s still alive at all.

He doesn’t have to be.

Robin pads across the carpet. It makes him sick, shuddering. His parents’ dead faces make him sicker. This is wrong. This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t _okay_.

Robin sobs a little as the chain loops around the bannister. It loops down to the bannister, fitting snugly around. The collar is still heavy on Robin’s neck. Soft, leather as Slade’s belt, can be pushed aside with chains. That’s the important thing.

The next part is the worst. Robin whimpers. He has to do this. This is what he has to do. His parents would hate him. But he can see them again. He can apologize to Gar and Rae and they wouldn’t forgive him but he would see them. His parents—they wouldn’t be as ashamed of them. It’s been so long since he’s seen them. His mother could hold him again, his father play with him, and it would be _okay_, it would be _alright_. It doesn’t have to hurt anymore.

Robin turns, and lets the chain wrap around his neck. It’s cold, but almost gentle. The other part has to be looped around the nose, and he has to stand up on the chair to do it. The chain is almost too short, he almost doesn’t make it but it slips over the nose and for a half second Robin feels that little bit of accomplishment that reminds him why he used to . . . risk his life.

Robin stands on the stair. All he has to do is lean forward. Lean forward, and it all stops, it’s all over. It ends.

Robin wants it to end. Maybe he’ll see his parents. He won’t have to do this, to be this, to live this. To live like an animal on Slade’s floor. That’s what happens. This man saw him, knew him, and Robin was right there.

It had been so numb. But this is happening here and now. It shakes Robin like an aching wave. He trembles at the top of that first stair. Leaping off buildings is easy, because he knows that he can fly. This is one jump he won’t make, crashing to the ground. Just like his parents.

They might be there. Maybe he’ll just go flying into the darkness like he was supposed to all along. He should have died instead of Raven, instead of Gar. There is nobody to miss him but he still shudders, is still afraid.

He still doesn’t want to die.

But this is for the _best_. Robin knows how to do things that are for the best. This he can do. This he _will _do.

Maybe it’s the last heroic thing he’ll ever do.

Robin leans forward.

It doesn’t hurt. It’s like something is clenching around his throat—as if it’s Slade’s fist, and he can feel himself almost getting light headed from the constriction. It burns tighter, Robin leaning forward. His senses are starting to scream at him to stop, to pull up, to stop this in any way he can.

This has to happen I want this to happen this _needs _to happen.

Robin can’t breathe. His mouth gapes, tongue hanging, no moisture in it. He can’t let himself breathe. The lack of oxygen is making him shudder but he pushes forward because he _has to do this_. Robin can’t let this hurt, can’t let this stop him. He can’t live like this, can’t exist like this, and this has to end. It all has to end. End like it finally, finally should. Everything shakes. Does he want this? Does he need this?

This has to happen, he has to keep leaning forward over the—

Robin’s legs give out. It’s all at once, sudden. His hands shakes as he touches the chain, hurting as they move upwards. There’s no way he can stop this now, can’t move, can’t breathe. His lungs burn. His mouth gapes despite itself, trying to suck in air. It screams. Robin would be screaming if he could.

Dying hurts.

His hands fall. Blood pounds in his head, screaming at him. The oxygen leaving him makes his muscles burn, give out. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t fucking _breathe_.

That’s the only thing that matters.

This has to stop. Robin thrashes as much as he can, knees rubbing raw on the carpet. Tears burn down his face in volcanic torrents. Please, please let this stop. It hurts. He just wants it to end, wants to see his parents, wants to stop feeling at all. His mouth gapes. Robin’s vision is going black as he hangs between the bannisters, screaming in stone, eyes finally, finally going black in a haze of agony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha . . . ha . . . .


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teeny tiny interlude . . . i feel bad giving u this as a full chap bc it's so short so take it as a thursday special. also go buy dceased unkillables bc slade is in it and he's sexy.  
also: villain is a minor character in the rebirth series. mr priest i am so sorry for doing ur characters like this but not sorry enough to stop.

“You will  _ tell me  _ where my son  _ is _ , Wilson, or I cannot make guarantees for your safety.”

Deathstroke hovers there, on the roof of the factory, face still completely covered by his mask. His face is unreadable, but Bruce’s teeth are bared for all to see, furious even through the blood staining them pink.

“Would you kill for your boy, I wonder?” Wilson asks. “Break your precious code to get him back?”

“Why kill you,” Bruce sneers, “when I can just make you _wish _you had died?”

“I’m getting bored,” Wilson says smoothly, coolly, opposing to Bruce’s fiery tones. The words are in contrast to the blood that stains his side from Bruce’s gauntlets, the hairline fracture in the orange side of his mask. “Your old Robin isn’t here. I don’t have him.”

“Don’t mock me, Wilson.”

A sneering laugh. “It’s true.”

The Bat is a shadow on the rooftop, spitting blood, licking it off of pale, thin lips. He is nothing but living darkness, leaping forward to consume the man in front of him.

Blood spatters. The _thump_ of fists hitting body armor echoes. The fight is so fast as to be unrecognizable, the only awareness of the movement through split-second reflex borne of years of training.

Deathstroke parries with his sword, flips away. The hairline crack in his mask is bigger.

“You’re getting close, Bat. Just a few more paces over that line, and you might be throwing me over the edge. It’d still be for nothing.

“The kid’s dead.”

“_Monster_.”

“_I _didn’t do it.”

Another exchange of blows. Slade’s mask cracks wider. There is the snap of bone. He cradles a finger, Batman cradles his arm.

“Tell me where he is.”

“I told you. Kid’s dead. Did it himself.”

A pregnant, terrifying pause.

“You drove him to suicide.”

“Don’t blame me for—”

A guttural, animalistic yell fills the night, and the both of them go tumbling off the rooftop, down into the darkness below.

* * *

Slade stalks into the man’s office with the broken body of a child and lays it on Villain’s examination table with no preamble. Villain’s not even sure how he got in, cradling the body that looks comically small in his arms. It’s a jumble of limbs on the table, pale as death.

“You’re lucky I’m not seeing a patient right now,” Villain says, eyes narrowed slightly. Wilson was one of his longest-term clients, yes, but there was always etiquette to keep in mind.

“Fix it.”

There’s something off in Slade’s tone, in the curve of his brow. He’s not even wearing a suit jacket. Something dangerous always lays in those eyes, dormant, but now it gleams. Villain steps forward.

The subject is a boy. Villain would say early teens, but it’s hard to make an accurate estimate with how small and half-starved the body is. He’s half-dressed, in a shirt far too large for him—one of Slade’s, more likely than not. Bruises dot all his visible skin, most prominently vivid around his neck.

Villain could speculate. Slade has a reputation; Villain isn’t unaware of his proclivities. This could be a hired escort, strangled in a fit of lust or rage. But he’s not hired to speculate, only hired to assess. Something tells him not to touch, not quite yet.

“He’s dead.”

“_Fix him_,” Slade snarls, and the violence in his eye flares. Villain doubts Slade would hurt him. But he knows too well how capable of it he is.

“I said he’s dead, not that I can’t do something about it. I’ll need to do a full examination—”

“Do it.”

“—do you know what the cause of death was?”

Slade looks at him as if the answer is obvious, which from the bruise, it is. “Strangulation. He hung himself.”

* * *

All Slade can see is the bruises around his neck, a throat split open, a boy dying in his arms. Robin had been dead in his arms, dead hanging in between the bannisters like some broken doll. Dead.

A dead child.

Another dead child.

This is not allowed to happen. This boy is not allowed to die, not without Slade’s permission. He should have been near him the whole time, shouldn’t have left him. Should have chained the boy to himself, not to the wall.

This will not be tolerated.

Villain walks in with a clipboard. The exam was fast and professional, as Slade would have expected—nothing less. “Strangulation, as you said. Subject appears to have a long history of violence—scar tissue and what looks like old fractures. Multiple bruises and abrasions, starvation, and . . . multiple instances of what appears to be anal rape.”

Slade stares coldly, daring him to continue. “Yes.”

“And, ah, you’ve been dosing him with a serum formulated from your own biology?”

“Yes. To help with healing.”

“Hm.” Villain seems to consider something. “I can work with that. How long has it been since the first dose?”

“About seven months.”

“That . . . I can work with.” Villain has a look in his eyes like he’s just encountered a particularly new and intriguing problem. Slade decides his enthusiasm better be enough to see the project through. “I’ll need some blood and tissue samples, but I’m assuming that will be no problem for you?”

“None.”


	29. XXIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEHEHE!! it is Here

Light.

Movement.

Voices.

All at the edge of his awareness, fading in and out of blackness. Robin’s head burns. Every bit of him aches, like his very cells are rebelling against the body they were put in. It’s a kind of pain that pierces so deep he’s never felt it before, but he can’t move. It feels like he’d broken a bone, like the time he had . . . before. That’s how deep it feels, how shattered, except this time it’s over every part of his muscle. Robin can’t move, can’t open his eyes, floating there in the blackness. It doesn’t hurt as much as it could. Is this the end?

Is this his soul finally unravelling?

Robin would have preferred nothingness.

* * *

Light burns his eyes. It makes it all burning, the fire growing, screaming in every part of him. Robin is on something soft, too hot, too much light. He feels sunburned all over. He becomes aware of his mouth, terribly dry, dry as the skin against the sheets. His body is eating itself alive, and Robin is too blissed out to notice. He’s sure if he weren’t floating in this darkness he would be screaming from the pain.

This isn’t what comes after death.

Robin, then, must be alive.

He cannot pinpoint the feeling the thought gives him.

* * *

The light ahead is flaming. Robin feels like it shouldn’t be buzzing so damn loudly. It bores into his eardrums and hurts him. Now, he can see the white ceiling of his—prison?—room, in almost gold color. Robin’s fingers twitch against the sheets. It feels strange to move them, like a game controller set on too-high sensitivity. He can feel every fiber of the sheets beneath him.

Robin can hear the footsteps—soft, then loud, then half-deafening. His eyes hurt, blinking dryly. Tears pool in them and Robin is thankful. The steps pound in his mind. The door shrieks open. Robin tries to twitch, curl in on himself—anything to cover his ears or his eyes. He can still see the brightness behind them.

Something blocks the light. Robin shivers—something grabs, roughly, onto his arm. A thumb presses to his wrist. Robin swears he can feel the imprint of the lines on the calloused palm.

“Master?” he mumbles, but his lips and tongue don’t work right, and it comes out a slur of noise.

“Put him out again,” Slade orders. Robin flinches at the sound, as much as his prone body can. It hurts. It’s too bright, too loud, too—

Something pricks his neck. It hurts, deep.

* * *

The lights hurt a little less. Robin can move now, stiffly.

He’s alive.

The ceiling is rough white, the wallpaper white patterned with light, tasteful lavender. Robin can feel every inch of the rough sheets on him. He feels disconnected from his body—there is pain there, but so numbed and dull it doesn’t truly register. His mind is intact.

Robin survived.

All he can think is _all that pain, and for nothing? _He’s right back where he started—

“Hello, pet.”

_Master_.

The word comes to mind unprompted. Robin feels blank about that too. He had tried to escape so many times.

Was this just another one?

Robin is trapped here, hot and shivering on the bed. The blankets stick to him, as if he’d been having nightmares the whole time he was out. He thought he’d planned it right, done it right, but he’d _failed_. _Again_.

“Master,” slips out of dry, parched lips. There’s a hand on his wrist, testing his pulse. Slade’s hand. He isn’t in Robin’s present line of view, so he tilts his head to see—Slade sits at the side of the bed, regarding him coolly with a neutral eye.

Slade is his master.

Robin’s hand jerks as he tries to move it, too fast and too hard. Something yanks on his forearm—Robin glances down to see an IV leaking clear liquid into his veins. His hand comes down painfully on his neck—

The collar is still there.

Slade’s hand presses on his chest.

“Stay still.”

Robin blinks up at him, lined face looking grim, and his hand falls away. There is another pause as Slade regards him, before he speaks.

“I am going to punish you for this so thoroughly,” Slade says coldly, “that you will _beg _me before you ever even _think _to take a breath again. I want you to remember that no matter how much you _hurt _right now, I am capable of inflicting ten times as much pain on you. Do you understand me?”

There’s a lump rising in Robin’s throat. It’s choking him, bringing something hot to his eyes. “Master—”

Slade leans back. He regards the IV for a second before pinching the line shut, a cruel look in his eyes. “No more painkillers.”

* * *

Robin sees nobody else. Slade is there, Slade is _always _there. Every time Robin looks up he’s sitting there, sometimes on his laptop, training on one or two memorable occasions. Robin wonders if he ever sleeps.

Robin barely sleeps. The painkillers were taking so much of the weight and the feeling is _back_—but worse. So much worse. His cells feel like they’re consuming him, and his bones feel like they crack in the morning and heal only to break again. The only sleep he gets is when he passes out after panting at the ceiling, tears trickling down his face, he passes out from sheer exhaustion. Waking up, over and over, to agony that hasn’t receded.

“_Please_,” Robin begs, “_I’m sorry_.”

“You did this to yourself,” Slade says coldly.

“Please!” Robin tries to move but he realizes, to his horror, that there is now something strapping him down.

Robin screams. He yells, _begs_, _prays_, for Slade to make it stop. It would be bearable if it was only an hour, only a few minutes, only even a day.

It doesn’t stop.

The lights hurt him. The sheets hurt him. Slade’s voice hurts him, even when he’s not speaking—which he does most of the time, completely ignoring Robin’s pleas until he falls into silent whimpering.

The look of disgust Slade gives him makes him shut his mouth and pray that nothing slips out of it.

* * *

“Leave.”

“Mr. Wilson, with all due respect, I am the one with a medical degree.”

“He isn’t allowed to see you. Having other people around . . . disturbs his training.”

* * *

Robin is still there.

Slade is still there.

It hurts just a little less every little while.

“What did you do to me?”

Slade appraises him, and then seems to decide to explain. “You were dead. You now have a small part of the serum that gave me my powers inside you. It’s why you’re not already buried.”

“A part of what made . . . you?” Robin’s lips are parched, and his mind struggles through the pain.

“That’s what I said. You’ll get used to it, even if you feel it’s . . . overwhelming, at first.”

Is that the light and sound and touch? Robin twitches a little under the blankets. The straps were removed after he stopped struggling from the sheer pain of it. Now, he can roll over to rest and get comfortable, even sit up and eat.

“Oh,” Robin says.

A part of Slade in him. Permanently, a part of what made Slade _Slade_, making them—the same. Slade’s mark on him, branding on him, his claim on him. It feels . . . like the way things have always been. The way things will always be. Robin’s body _belongs _to Slade and he feels it no more acutely than in this singular moment.

He can’t fight it, can’t fight his own body on this, can’t fight _Slade_. It doesn’t feel like giving up like perhaps it should—instead, it feels like finally slipping under the surface of the water after being slowly, inevitably pulled under it.

“When does it stop hurting?”

Slade shrugs, like he doesn’t care at all, which he probably doesn’t. “Another day or two, probably.”

A day or two?

“How long has it been since—”

“Five days.”

Robin had thought it had been weeks. Been months. He blinks in surprise, and then feels shame wash over him. He should have been strong enough to take it. If he was so weak . . .

_That’s just how I am_.

* * *

The buzzing of the light and the sound of Slade’s voice don’t become _less_, exactly, but they become . . . background. Manageable. Life slowly, torturously, becomes bearable again. Robin sits up, eats, takes his first steps. He’s still _bad _at recognizing where things are, or what reaction his body might have to what he tells it to do, but he’s learning.

Slade laughs when he accidentally crushes one of the hospital bars, shocked at his own strength. He looks at his hand like it’s enchanted, then back at Slade, whose expression has turned blank again.

It didn’t sound like a cruel laugh.

Robin doesn’t think he really understands Slade anymore. Or, he _never _did, but now he understands him less. Back then, in a time almost unimaginable, Slade was an enemy. Robin only saw him to fight him. Now, he sees Slade so much, and it only adds to Robin’s lack of understanding.

He _wants _to understand, he realizes. That hunger for knowledge is back, burning lower but just as intense. Robin knows who he is now, perhaps, but doesn’t understand why he is. Who he is, truly.

The feeling should shock him, or making him sick. Instead Robin just feels numb to it.

Slade is his master.

Slade will _always _be his master.

Robin’s tears are all dried up.

* * *

The food is better than regular hospital food. Robin still doesn’t know where he is—hasn’t seen anyone else. Slade’s been known to answer questions before, and Robin hesitantly opens his mouth.

“Is there . . . a doctor?”

“My personal physician. You are not permitted to see him.”

_Oh_.

Robin doesn’t quite have it in him to ask why not. Slade has promised to punish him, he remembers. Slade sounded so vicious that Robin knows that he keeps his word. That there is suffering in his future.

“I’m sorry for—” Robin hesitates. “I’m sorry for . . .”

“For killing yourself?”

Not _trying_. Robin had succeeded.

He had been dead. All he can remember from it is nothingness, and he wonders if that means there is no afterlife. “Yes,” he says softly.

“You _should_, boy. You’re not allowed to hurt yourself without my permission. You _will_ be punished.”

Robin shivers.

* * *

The next time Robin wakes up, the pain is almost gone. He’s still much more sensitive to everything, but the agony of his body reworking itself doesn’t ache his every movement. It’s impossible to miss the table set up in the middle of the room.

“You’re awake. Come here.” Slade is sitting at the table, working with strange looking tools that Robin doesn’t recognize. It makes his eyes widen a little, gut wrenching. Is this his punishment? What’s Slade going to do to him?

Bare feet hit the startlingly cold floor. Robin’s dressed only in the hospital robes, a small shift in white that he swears is slightly transparent. It’s almost like the shirt Slade had dressed him in, but this preserves his dignity more.

Robin wonders how much dignity he has left. Not nearly enough.

Slade’s brought him so _low_.

(Just a pet.)

“Is this . . . my punishment?”

Slade shakes his head, hair moving slightly on his shoulders. He’s focused on what he’s doing, not even glancing at Robin.

“It’s a reminder, pet. I said _come here_.”

Robin hurries over. There’s a chair opposite Slade, which he assumes is for him. Robin sits down. Slade overshadows him. There’s a disturbing looking needle that makes Robin shudder. Worse, two straps sit in the middle of it.

“Arms out.”

The straps are wrist-size, exactly where they would be if Robin puts out his hands. Slade’s thought of everything, as always. They strap him in snugly, after Slade turns over his arms so that the insides of his forearms are visible.

Robin recognizes the equipment then. The needle—the ink to put it in.

Tattoos.

Slade’s going to give him a tattoo.

It’s a relief, really, to know that it’s not some kind of sick torture he’s never heard of. Slade’s going to mark him and Robin could fight but it’s not worth it. It’s another declaration of ownership, and Robin doesn’t know why he doesn’t care.

He belongs to Slade anyways.

Slade doesn’t warn him about the pain. Robin squeezes eyes shut as the needles poke into the sensitive skin of his forearms over and over. Slade moves from one and then the other, and it _burns_, screaming at him—burns almost as much as his cells rearranging themselves. Slade starts with the left arm, and then the right, working whatever it is right under Robin’s wrists. There’s no room for Robin to wiggle with the straps holding him down so thoroughly, so all he can do is fix his soles to the cool floor and press his head down and let it _hurt_.

It seems forever until Slade leans back, pulling Robin’s arms forwards to admire his work. Robin slowly opens his eyes, almost afraid to see, staring at the black ink now forever branding his skin.

PROPERTY OF DEATHSTROKE.

One declaration on each wrist, exactly the same, in the same small black letters. Robin blinks at them. They burn back at him.

_Property_.

Robin’s not even surprised when Slade pulls him up, pushes his head to the table. He can feel a hand already coming up his thigh to grab at his ass before the gown is pushed up to his waist to let Slade in. The table is cold as Robin rocks into it.

* * *

Slade drugs him before getting him to the house. Robin wonders if it’s because he trusts him less, or because he doesn’t want anyone around him. Just Slade. That’s supposed to be a brainwashing tactic, isn’t it?

As if being aware of it wouldn’t make it work. Robin tries not to think about it, how lonely he is. How Slade is the only one here. Is this Stockholm Syndrome?

That doesn’t feel like the right term. Robin _belongs _here, _belongs _to Slade. It’s the way of the world; that’s been proven over and over and over.

* * *

The house is the same. This time, Robin doesn’t have a chain.

Slade murmurs in his ear, silky and vicious. “If you stray too far away from me, boy, the nanobots in your blood will activate. They won’t kill you, but I promise that it will hurt very, very much.”

Robin shivers. He remembers the pain. Being on a leash might be worse, or it might be better. It doesn’t matter now. Either way, he can’t leave Slade’s side. Robin knows he wouldn’t be able to stand being away from him; the very thought makes him slightly nauseous.

On impulse, Robin grabs onto Slade’s arm. He can feel the heavy muscle beneath his hands, knows that Slade can throw him off with one movement. It’s comforting, almost, to be so close to him. Robin doesn’t pause to interrogate the feeling. He feels the whole man go stiff and Robin goes stiff too, clinging harder.

Then Slade relaxes, and Robin’s allowed to walk next to him, holding onto his forearm like a child. Slade’s not going anywhere, he’s right here. Robin’s not going to be left alone, Slade is right here. Slade dumps a bag near the door and then they’re going down—to the basement, to the white walls that Robin remembers so well. There is a room down here for him—

“Please,” he begs, “please don’t leave me—don’t leave me down here—master—master!” He’s left stumbling to keep up while Slade’s face stays impassive. Fear blooms in his gut, makes him start to shake—

But he’s not pushed roughly into his own room. Instead, he falls against the cold granite of somewhere so similar to where he’s been he wonders if Slade makes all his bases the same way.

This is the whipping room.

Robin shakes. He remembers the crack of the whip, the thing biting into him. Passing out from the pain of it, blood and piss down his legs and pooling on the ground. This is his punishment.

He turns, and Slade’s cold eye holds no mercy. “On your feet.” Robin stumbles to them, eyes wide, as Slade instructs him to the same position he’d been in last time. Feet apart, hands chained above his head, naked against the wall. Tears _aren’t _pooling in his eyes, they’re not, they can’t be, even as they run hot down his face. It all hurts.

Robin’s so tired of the pain.

Slade’s fury can be heard in every _crack _of the whip as it slices skin from Robin’s shoulders to his hips. The strikes are angry, uneven, leaving cuts that gush blood. Near the end, one of them hits bone. There is no counting, there is just cut after angry cut after angry cut, crisscrossing down through the muscle and shredding Robin’s skin to bloody, ruined ribbons. Every slash leaves Robin screaming against the wall, bucking helplessly to try to get away from it. His skin is meticulously flayed off of him until all that’s left is reddened, roping muscle and nerves threading through it.

The screams echo back to him with symphonic tenor, a shrieking chorus to Slade’s fury and retribution. He can feel his body slipping, his mind blessedly going dark, but Slade doesn’t stop.

Robin doesn’t think he’ll stop for a long, long time.

* * *

Robin wakes up to the stench of cigarette smoke filling the small room. His back screams at him with every movement. There’s a shadow blocking the light—Slade, a cigarette between his fingers, regarding Robin with a neutral stare.

Robin reaches out his fingers to find them stained as a bloody handprint, shaking in front of his face.

It hurts, but not as much as laying on that hospital bed had hurt. He coughs, choking on his own pain. The smoke stifles him.

Slade flicks the cigarette off to the side before starting to move, eye fixed mercilessly on Robin.

Gasping in agony, Robin crawls after him.


	30. XXX

Slade seems determined to fuck Robin every possible way and place, just because he can. Robin sucks him off under the table, Robin’s fucked over the counter, over the sofa, chokes on Slade in the shower. The wounds from the whipping heal, terribly quickly, and Robin begins to understand part of what makes Slade a metahuman.

Robin catches himself in the mirror, staring. Dark, stringy hair frames his face. Except—there, at the roots, is something paler. Robin stares. His hair is growing in  _ white _ .

Just like Slade’s.

“It’s a side effect of the serum.”

Robin stares. He doesn’t recognize himself in the mirror. When was the last time he had one in front of himself to see what he looked like? It seems a long time. Slade tugs roughly on his hair, combing it clumsily with heavy fingers. “You need a haircut.”

Robin glances up at him. He’s not sure if he agrees or disagrees, but it doesn’t matter. Slade is already pulling out his knife, a hand on Robin’s shoulder making sure he stays still. A few hard tugs and slashes later, Robin’s hair hangs rough-cut around his ears and the back of his neck. Slade regards his work with a critical eye.

“We’ll get you a proper one later.”

Everything hurts more,  _ feels  _ more after coming back. It’s like every part of him is a raw nerve, the pain twice as much, every sense twice as alert. The smallest noises make him twitch, the floor he sleeps on even rougher than he remembers. The few times that he forgets to stick to Slade like glue, he finds himself doubling over in agony, screaming soundlessly as he’s eaten alive by the nanobots. Slade always waits those few extra seconds before stepping back into the radius, granting him respite.

Training starts up again. It’s a relief to get some clothes, even if they get stripped off whenever Slade likes. Robin notices it’s almost possible, now, to keep up with Slade’s movements and strength. It all devolves into an easy schedule, something that almost, almost becomes normalcy.

“Good boy,” Slade tells him when he perfects a move or gets a strike in correctly.  _ Good boy _ , when Slade comes so deep inside him Robin thinks it won’t get out.

Robin feels something, then, with those words, with Slade so close. Something deep in his chest, a wanting, a relief.

Slade is all he has, after all.

* * *

“We’re trying something new today,” Slade purrs. The water drips down slicked hair to the floor, across the muscled planes of his body, pooling at his feet. Robin shivers, a towel around his shoulders, and the sentiment strikes his nerves like a piano hammer hitting a chord.

Fingers hook into the loop of Robin’s collar, and he stumbles after Slade, trying his best not to slip on the wet floor. Slade throws him against the bed. Robin’s just glad it’s soft. “Get on it,” Slade orders, then, “spread your legs.”

Oh. It’s like that, then. The inside of his thighs still isn’t dry yet, Robin leaning up against the pillows. He hopes it’s over soon, that whatever Slade wants doesn’t hurt so much. The bed caves as Slade’s weight sinks into it. Robin’s head lays back.

But Slade doesn’t come right at him. Instead, there’s a pregnant, terrifying pause as Slade moves a little. Seconds later, Robin hears a small clinking noise, as if something is being unscrewed.

He shouldn’t look.

He’s looking.

Slade is slicking his fingers with some kind of almost-transparent substance, out of something that looks like a toothpaste tube. Is it some kind of drug? Robin narrows his eyes.

Slade notices him watching and laughs.  _ Then _ Slade is between his legs, spreading them further so he has easier access. Robin can barely balance by himself, but one of Slade’s hands digging into his thigh keeps him steady. The towel falls behind him, forgotten.

Slade’s fingers are cold as they prod at his entrance. Robin shifts uncomfortably, only to wince as Slade slaps his thigh warningly. He does his best to stay still. Slade’s never bothered with this before. It barely hurts when Slade’s finger enters him, Robin’s muscles fluttering around the small intrusion. The second comes soon after it, stretching him cold and wide.

Slade still doesn’t enter. He’s still naked but he’s not  _ hard _ , barely looks interested in what he’s doing except Robin has never known Slade to do anything without meticulous focus. Slade’s fingers are down to the knuckle now, and they look almost grotesque so deep inside him. Robin doesn’t usually  _ look _ . He closes his eyes, but just as he does so, Slade’s probing fingers find the place in him that makes his legs jerk without his permission and his teeth clench on his tongue. His reaction doesn’t go unnoticed.

A third finger slips in and  _ drags  _ across him. Robin tries not to gasp but he fails, staring at a vein in Slade’s neck, swallowing hard. This shouldn’t be happening. His mind is feeling hazy now but this  _ shouldn’t be happening _ , he shouldn’t be feeling this, it shouldn’t be making the heat inside his gut burn hotter than it ever has before. Robin tries to squirm away but Slade’s face instantly turns dark. Robin goes stock still even before Slade spanks his thigh again, as if to say,  _ stay still, slut _ .

To his dawning horror, Slade’s other hand starts to move. His whole fist closes around Robin’s cock, and Robin’s not even sure if he’s soft anymore. Slade’s fist is hot and rough and it strokes him expertly and Robin moans, gasping with the humiliation of it.

Slade lets out a low, short laugh. His grip grows harder, almost painful, but still making Robin  _ ache  _ somewhere deep and primal. Robin still tries to fight back a little, to push Slade aside, pretend he’s somewhere else—

But Slade’s fingers are at that spot again, rougher, stabbing at it with practiced precision that makes Robin shut his eyes and give moaning, panting gasps. It’s not supposed to feel this good and he wasn’t sure that it  _ could _ , certainly not from Slade touching him and digging into all the spots that make him shudder with heat and want. Robin’s giving in so easily but now, in this moment, he doesn’t care. Robin finds his hips bucking into Slade’s fingers, his mouth forming needy noises as Slade slips in and out of him.

“Feel good, slut?” Slade’s voice doesn’t hold the malice it usually does; instead, it’s full of amusement as he watches Robin shake under his ministrations. Robin shuts his eyes tight so he doesn’t have to know he’s being watched. His face burns. He groans as Slade drags the pad of his thumb across his cockhead, making him twitch and gasp. This is too easy, Robin is making it too easy—

But what is he even fighting anymore? His master, who can do anything to him?

Robin fucks into Slade’s hand again. He’s close. He’s getting closer, the pleasure building in his gut higher and higher, making him want moremore _ more _ . Robin’s thoughts are hazing over, the pleasure shaking through him.

Slade’s hand suddenly slips out of him, fingers withdrawing slightly with a slick noise. Robin opens his eyes, confused. Slade stares coolly.

Robin tries to move back on Slade’s fingers, but a hand pressed against his chest stops any movements. He tries again, frustrated, rutting again into Slade but failing. “Master—please—”

“I know you can beg better than that,” Slade interrupts. Robin pauses. He wants to cry from how tired he is, from sheer  _ need _ .

“Please,” his voice is breaking, and Robin is breaking, and it’s all coming crashing down. “Please, master, please, I just need it to finish—need it to stop—pleaseplease _ please _ —”

Robin snaps his hips forward, needy again, but Slade just presses back on him harder. “You’ll take what I give you, pet.”

Robin whimpers. His toes curl in the sheets as he does everything he can to stay still, shuddering—

Slade slips his fingers in, finally, and it only takes one more drag against that place inside him before Robin’s hips are spasming as he groans so loudly it drowns out his own thoughts, shuddering through his orgasm. He twitches through it, Slade’s fingers still digging inside him, the sensation making his body jerk all the more. When he’s finally finished, sweat hot on his skin, he’s blinking into Slade’s near-expressionless face. Something prods against Robin’s lips and he opens them blankly only to let Slade’s fingers in. Robin can taste the come on the fingers and he realizes belatedly it’s  _ his _ , saliva on his lips as Slade’s thick fingers move deeper.

They press down on his tongue, Robin gagging around them as tears come to his eyes. His throat clenches around Slade’s fingers as they slowly move in and out, saliva dribbling down his chin, fucking his throat leisurely but just as thoroughly as his cock might. Robin whimpers around it, feeling it stretch his throat, still blinking tears away from his gag reflex. Slade fucks his throat faster, harder, saliva falling to the ground.

Robin tries to flick his tongue under it from instinct, sucks on it obediently, as he might on Slade’s cock to make him finish faster.

“Good boy,” Slade murmurs, and Robin works his tongue against the lines of Slade’s fingers, chokes on him almost feverishly as Slade thrusts. Slade is pleased with him. Why does that make something in him warm, something flutter in his stomach? Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Slade’s other hand moves from inside him, where Robin had barely remembered that it had been. He feels empty and cold without Slade’s fingers. A thumb brushes his nipple and Robin sucks in air even though he just chokes on his own saliva and on Slade. It makes heat bloom as Slade rolls it between his fingers, half-painful and half sending sparks arching down his spine. Slade makes a pleased noise, and  _ pinches _ , eliciting a whine of pain around his fingers. They move rougher, aching in his throat.  _ Good boy _ , Slade had said. Robin doesn’t complain.

Slade moves to his other nipple, leaving the one hard and red, sensation coming back in prickling pain. Why does the hurt make him ache low in himself? Robin’s half hard by the time Slade’s rolling his second nipple between his thumb and forefinger, too-big on Robin’s small body. Robin groans around Slade’s fingers, hoping he’ll get to come a second time. He tries to rub his thighs together, get any kind of friction. Slade laughs.

Robin makes a plea around Slade’s hand, and fingers close on his cock, stroking him as Robin’s legs twitch. The fingers in his mouth dig in him deeper, going as far down his throat as they can, down to the knuckle, Robin’s mouth hanging open so that they have total access. Saliva drips to his chest, a stuttering moan not helping the situation. Fingers still flick at his nipples, and it feels like Slade’s hands are everywhere, still fucking his throat, still rubbing his cock, still touching him with burning fingertips and leaving that sparking, painful pleasure behind.

It’s only through Slade’s shifting that Robin’s eyes flick open, watching the man slip his erection out, hands disappearing from Robin’s cock to spread his hole open once again. Robin’s eyes go wide in expectation of pain but all he feels is the sensation of it spreading him wide, clenching down on the hard shaft as Slade pushes his way in. Fingers touch his cock once again as Slade slips all the way in, balls flush against him, brushing deep inside.

Robin comes with a cry strangled by Slade’s fingers. His hips jerk without his permission, up towards Slade, his own heat spilling onto his stomach and chest. Slade moves inside him, and Robin rides it through his orgasm, gasping helplessly. Slade’s fingers finally begin to slip out of his throat, smearing saliva on his cheek, spit dripping into dark hair. Robin’s left sucking on the very tips of them, his body thrown between Slade and the bed like a toy as Slade gets to work.

Slade thrusts into him shallowly, and then deep, deep inside, making Robin ache at the stimulation. There is no part of his insides that Slade doesn’t hit, doesn’t make him jerk with sheer sensation. Robin cries out in something like pleasure when Slade twists one of his nipples again, almost vicious this time, nails digging into his pectoral. Robin thinks he feels blood as Slade slams in again. Slade’s leaning over him, hair hanging in curtains, a vicious look in his eye. Nails bite into Robin’s neck, just enough not to choke, dragging red lines through his skin.

Robin’s getting hard again, Slade hitting that place in him, Robin’s hips jerking up with every thrust of Slade’s—ass coming to meet him, little panting moans every time Slade slides deeper into him. The only sound is the slickness of the lubricant between their bodies, Slade’s balls slapping against Robin’s ass, the growling of some feral beast that slips from Slade’s teeth. Slade comes once, but he doesn’t stop, still pushing into Robin—comes again, minutes later, Robin almost at the end of his rope. There’s not enough stimulation as Slade slips out, the heat and sparks still shuddering in every limb. Not being full of Slade feels  _ wrong _ , and Robin makes a noise of protest. His hips snap up again, like they might to meet Slade’s thrust, but there is nothing inside him. Robin blinks, a hand going to his crotch—

Slade’s fingers close around his wrist, twisting.

“Beg,” Slade orders coldly.

“Master, please.” The words spill from his mouth like prayers. “Please, I want—I need—please, please just—”

“Tell me what you want, pet.”

Robin’s face burns but the pleasure is too much, too deadly, burning in his gut with no sign of stopping and he  _ needs _ , desperately, like he needs to breathe. “I want to come!” His hips rock, as if to emphasize the point, even though he’s pushed back down.

“Tell me what you are,” Slade purrs.

Robin’s movements are stopped slightly, fuzzed brain trying to figure it out, desperate to say anything that will have Slade touch him. “I’m—I’m your . . . apprentice?”

“No.” Slade leans in. Robin can hear the smile on his lips. “You’re my  _ whore _ .”

“I’m your—” Robin sobs, wants to sob more but it doesn’t matter, not really, not to someone that stopped having pride so long ago, not to something of Slade’s. “I’m your whore.”

“Mmm.” Slade’s fingers grasp his cock and all at once Robin is coming, spilling himself into Slade’s palm with a cry. He feels spent, sagging back onto the sheets, hoping Slade doesn’t have any further use for him. Robin isn’t that lucky, Slade’s hand wiping come off on Robin’s cheek before flipping him over so his head presses against the sheets. Robin shudders as Slade lifts up his hips to get at his ass again, sliding in easily and jerking himself off easily inside him.

When Slade finishes, Robin collapses, boneless, feeling the aching throughout his body, open and used. His collar digs into his neck but he doesn’t care—he’s just glad to be buried in the sheets.

Slade’s fingers dig into his thigh as he pushes him aside to lay down himself. Slade seems satisfied, almost in a good mood.  _ Good _ . “Enjoy yourself, pet?” He laughs to himself, almost cruel, and Robin takes the question as rhetorical. “You’re much more amusing when you know your place.”

Robin just clings to the pillow. He thinks some of the come from his face has come off on it, but he doesn’t care. It’s soft, and he’s warm, even if some of it is from Slade’s heat still inside him. With a small  _ click _ , the lights go out, and Slade pulls the blankets over himself and Robin. They’re soft, too, Robin stifled under them in the warmth. It smells of come and sweat and  _ Slade _ , all familiar. He doesn’t dare move, thinking he might anger Slade, so instead he lays curled up there. It’s much better than sleeping on the floor, and he doesn’t want to get put back there. Chained like a dog.

Slade settles in, his shifting making Robin slide towards him on the bed. Robin doesn’t try to stop it, too tired and bleary as he’s pushed against Slade. He’s warm, hot almost, and Robin feels small right next to the man’s body. He can feel muscles shifting right under the skin, lethal.

Robin doesn’t move, and he doesn’t know why. It’s not unpleasant. Robin’s not alone, Slade’s right here, right next to him, warm and alive. Every breath he takes breathes in the man’s scent.

Robin falls asleep curled up against his master under the sheets.

* * *

It’s hot, stifling, and something is being shoved in his face. Robin feels like he’s suffocating, and tries to jerk away. The only response he gets is the hands digging ever more viciously into his scalp, shoving him forward. Something rubs against his cheek, almost slick, hard and hot—

He went to bed with Slade. He’s with Slade. Robin realizes what’s going on, opens his mouth. Slade’s member is shoved in roughly, choking him, and Slade’s pleased sigh comes from above—over the blankets. Robin’s throat is thoroughly fucked until Slade comes down it, Robin swallowing feverishly. It slips out of his mouth, Slade pushing aside the blankets to let in blessed cold air as Robin crawls out, blinking at the light.

* * *

Robin learns Slade’s weapons like the back of his hand. There is always blood on them, the swords and knives especially. Slade has a duffel bag full of weapons that he expects Robin to know how to clean like the back of his hand. Robin sits at his feet while Slade lounges on the sofa, figuring out how to clean the unloaded guns. He’s only allowed the swords and knives under Slade’s supervision, and he’s never allowed to touch the huge sword that sits in a leather case. Robin wants to ask about it, but he doesn’t. He’s not fully trusted with the blades yet.

Robin  _ wants  _ to be good, he realizes. He  _ wants  _ Slade to trust him. Some small part of him rebels at that, but he pushes it down. It feels good to make Slade happy. To be wanted. Robin just doesn’t want to  _ hurt _ anymore.

* * *

“You know what’s going to fucking happen if you don’t stay horizontal?”

Robin flinches.  _ I’m sorry _ . “I’ll be . . . killed?”

“No, you won’t,” Slade says, “I doped you up. You’re not going to die. But it’s going to hurt very, very much.” There’s a viciousness in his voice. “And I’ll have to rescue your pathetic skin. And then I’ll hurt you worse.”

“I’m sorry,” Robin says.

“Don’t apologize,” Slade snaps. “Do better.” Slade’s heel pushes Robin’s feet back, rough fingers adjusting his arms. Robin feels dwarfed as he squints at the target, the gun held firmly between his hands. He makes sure his feet are wide enough to deal with the recoil before the gun goes off with a shocking noise, leaving Robin’s ears ringing.  _ They’ll heal _ , Slade had said,  _ which gives you an advantage. Use it _ .

Across the room, the bullet buries itself in the target’s second ring. Robin winces. Slade clicks his tongue.

And on it goes. Day after day, training until his muscles go limp, preparing for—something. Robin truly can’t shake the feeling that it’s  _ something _ , all alone in the huge house, but he never quite figures out what it is.

* * *

Slade pushes him out of bed, Robin landing on the floor with a hiss and a strangled, humiliating cry. It’s early, and no light drifts in through the window. Clothes are thrown at him, ones that are different from the typical fare he usually wears. Robin stumbles into them—they’re camouflaged, in exactly his size, in concert with heavy boots that almost look like Slade’s. Except much, much smaller.

“Where are we going?” Robin asks before he can stop himself.

“Training,” Slade says, and that’s that. Robin’s almost shocked as he’s lead outside, Slade’s duffel bag is slung over his shoulder. There’s no light, but the crisp night air is almost electric as he breathes it in. It’s been a long time since he’s been outside, really outside, and he wants to get a good chance at it—but that’s before he’s pushed into the shotgun seat of the darkened car and Slade slings the duffel into the back.

The driving lulls Robin to sleep, as much as he wants to see where they are. He’s still sore from last night, where Slade had been frustrated all day and itching to take it out on Robin’s body. The bruises pepper his skin, aching when he shifts the wrong way. The buzz of the car echoes through his skeleton before he awakes with a start at the sudden stop of the car.

There is nobody around. Someday, Robin thinks, this would have meant something to him. He would have done his damndest to run.

Running is a dream, half-forgotten and absurd.

Instead, Robin gets out, following Slade. Slade takes the duffel, but he dumps a backpack half Robin’s size on him. Robin’s strong enough to hold and carry it, of course, but it’s still heavy and unexpected. As Slade begins to move, he seems to know where he’s going. Frost crunches under his feet, the chill seeming to go to his bones. Robin’s not used to being outside, but he knows they’ll be here for a while. Slade has that look about him. Sometimes, he’ll glance at the trees, or crouch down to get a look at something on the frost on the ground before making a decision about where to go.

They walk for some time, before Slade decides it’s a good place to make some kind of camp. He puts the duffel down, and begins to unpack—weapons, mostly. Robin recognizes the rifles, because he’s been cleaning them. The spot is hard to get to and barely has room to sit; Robin does his best not to make noise as he steps through.

Slade passes him a pair of binoculars. There’s a small creek up ahead, and Robin can make the sound out so clearly. It was never this easy to hear before. That’s the serum that Slade gave him, he knows.

“We’re going to be quiet,” Slade says, voice low, more so than Robin has ever heard. “We’re hunting.”

He passes Robin a rifle, and ammunition. Robin loads it silently, and then sits, unsure of what to do with it. “We’re going to wait for a big buck to come and get a drink. You have to wait until he’s within twenty or thirty feet before you aim for the vital organs. Then you’re going to shoot him.”

Robin pales a little. “Me? I mean,” he adds hastily, “I’ve never . . . never killed anything.”

“Bet you’ve killed spiders, haven’t you, boy? Unless you’re more of a bitch than I thought. This is just another animal. A little bit bigger. You’re my apprentice. Learn.”

Slade’s apprentice. Right.  _ Learn _ . Robin’s hands shudder a little. What else will he be force to learn?

He can’t think about that. He has to do this. Make Slade proud of him, make Slade happy. Be  _ good _ .

The waiting is the worst part. Robin feels the anxiety in the pit of his stomach. It’s just a deer. It doesn’t matter, not really—it’s something he knows he can do. But he feels so strongly that this is a step on another path, one he’s not sure he wants to take. One he’s not sure he’ll be  _ able _ to take, when the time comes.

Slade is right next to him. Robin can’t refuse.

The buck wanders in slowly. Robin hears him before he sees him, crunching frosted grass. Maybe he’s supposed to see it as majestic, but all he sees is an animal—innocent, yes, but in its native habitat. Coming to drink at the stream, coming closer, closer, closer.

Maybe he imagines it looking like a person. Robin shivers, but Slade puts a hand on his thigh, warning him to be still. Robin leans into the warmth, the cold gnawing through his kneeling form, up to his thighs. Slowly he begins to aim, staring through the sight on his gun. Aiming for the head.

Brain, splattered on the alley of Gotham City, one of what used to be a Joker’s henchman who had since displeased him. A human.

_ This is just a spider. Just like master said. Just a spider. _

“Shoot,” Slade orders, almost inaudible.

The buck turns its head, eyes staring right at Robin, alight with life.

Robin pulls the trigger.

The animal collapses.


	31. XXXI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has one of my FAVE SCENES EVER from this fic . . . see if u can guess which one it is (hint: its not hard)

The hot blood from the slaughtered animal still stains Robin’s forearms. He’d been forced to help Slade gut the creature, to get the cuts of meat so that he’d be able to cook it later. It had been mostly wiped off from the table where it was slaughtered but he swears he can still feel the heat, even in the tiny bloodstains that linger on his arms.

_ Just like a spider. Nothing important. _

Robin feels like he’s just damned himself. He thought he was beyond such feelings, but here it is, haunting him once again. Fingers rub feverishly at the dried blood, flaking off of his arms and forming rusty dust on his camouflaged pants. He’s small in the shotgun seat, watching Slade deftly maneuver the car back to where the house is. Robin notes that the place is in the USA, probably a small suburb, but he doesn’t see anything that gives a hint as to the place. He could ask, but he doesn’t.

Instead, his mouth opens to ask something that he didn’t truly know he’d been wondering about. All he can see are the buck’s dead, blank eyes as it was cut open. Robin had been dead—truly, really dead.

Dead and gone.

“Why did you bring me back?”

The idea of being all alone in the nothingness of death seems almost to inspire fear, now, a shudder down his spine. Or maybe that’s the fear of asking something of Slade. Robin hopes he’s in a good mood.

Slade’s hands are relaxed on the steering wheel. A cold eye glances over. There’s a long pause, Robin’s heart almost starting to beat faster. “I’ve spent time and money on you, boy. I don’t let go of my investments so easily.” The car jerks into the driveway of Slade’s mansion, eye narrowed as it turns to face Robin. “I fucking _ own you _. It’s like cleaning a weapon. Things that I own don’t make decisions without me.”

There is something dangerous in those eyes. Robin shrinks back, biting back an apology that always makes Slade roll his eye, getting out of the car to help with the rest of the buck.

* * *

Slade talks to people more and more—has people _ over _, more and more. Robin doesn’t see the man from before, “Billy”, again, but he sees Slade have discussions with men in suits as Robin sits on the couch or is relegated to the floor. Sitting at Slade’s feet seems almost natural, now, leaning between his legs and resting his cheek on a muscular thigh. Slade is there. Slade isn’t leaving.

There’s a part of Robin that hates that they can see him. The humiliation aches the first time, but it’s easier, so terribly easy, to turn his head and bury his face in Slade’s thigh and ignore it all. It’s warm, and he’s at Slade’s feet, and that’s how it’s _ supposed _to be so it can’t be wrong.

Robin is so, so tired of fighting Slade.

* * *

By Slade’s feet is where he sits while Slade takes his calls—short, usually, because Slade is succinct, and, while Robin knows that he has the potential to be _ patient _, he’s always abrupt on the phone. This one catches him in the middle of a Veep rerun, his face darkening as he flicks the burner open to answer it.

A pause. Robin’s eyes are half-lidded, half asleep on the floor. He likes sleeping. It’s peaceful, relaxing. There’s no thinking that he has to do.

Slade goes tense. Robin feels his muscles contract with him, eyes narrowing. Something’s wrong. Slade is upset?

“How did you get this number?” Slade just sounds exasperated, but there’s no mistaking the winding muscles clenching and unclenching. “That’s none of your business,” Slade continues, Robin privy to the one-sided conversation. He can almost, almost hear someone on the other end of the line—but he can’t quite make out the words.

“And what if I have?” Slade says, and then, “You can know it all you want.”

“You’d know all about that, Adeline,” Slade snaps viciously into the phone, and it snaps shut seconds afterwards. Slade looks down to see Robin looking at him. His eye narrows. Robin quickly turns his gaze back to the patterned carpet, letting his eyes drift between the curls and the colors. Distraction.

“Bitch,” Slade grumbles. The phone slips back into his jeans. “I’m going to have to have a word with Billy about telling her things. Then again, who knows _ where _she gets that information . . .”

Robin doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Adeline—Addie? Should Robin ask? Maybe. Slade is upset at the moment, though, so he opts not to. Even Slade’s bare feet look dangerous.

A hand tugs at his collar. Slade’s grabbing Robin, pulling him up by the collar and onto his lap. Robin can feel his legs spreading over Slade’s knees, Slade’s hand groping at his ass. The look on Slade’s face is almost indulgent, almost sneering.

All of a sudden, a hand grabs at Robin’s jaw, eclipsing the whole side of his face. Robin’s eyes widen, but he has no time, as Slade yanks him in to press his lips to Robin’s. Robin’s open pliantly, letting Slade bite so hard at his lower lip it draws blood. He can feel the man’s goatee scratching against his jawline, a tongue probing into his split lip. Slade pulls away licking blood off of his reddened lips. Blood drips down Robin’s chin.

“On the floor. Hands and knees,” Slade orders, eyes narrowed, and Robin knows that this is going to hurt.

* * *

Robin doesn’t question it the day Slade throws jeans and a t-shirt at him as they’re getting dressed. He gets a jean jacket over it, too, and Robin wonders if it’s meant to cover the words on his wrists. There’s sunglasses, which he slips on, as Slade gets into his own disguise. This one is much more pronounced, with a dark wig and a glass eye that he slips into the empty, gaping socket in his head. The glass eye is brown, and so are the contacts, as Slade dons jeans and a T-shirt with the logo of some ubiquitous American brand.

The bags are somehow already packed as Robin hauls them to the car with Slade, putting them in the back. Slade travels light, though Robin can guess from the noise, shape, and weight that some of them are hiding guns and other weapons. Slade would never travel anywhere without his sword. Slade looks strange, but Robin has gotten so used to the contours of his skin and the lines of his face that it’s easy enough to get used to. He still smells the same, even.

“Your name is Edward Bower,” Slade tells him. “You’re my son. You’re fifteen, and we’re from San Francisco visiting my parents in Metropolis. Repeat it back to me.”

Robin does.

Robin doesn’t ask where they’re going. He just watches the scenery roll by, the car whirring down the highway in the back of his mind. It was early when they’d gotten up, so Robin falls asleep easily, drifting off to dreams that he doesn’t remember. When he wakes up, it’s by Slade snapping at him to get up.

They’re in a small convenience store. Robin doesn’t see anything much around but a hotel chain and a restaurant with a name he doesn’t recognize. Robin stares longingly at the cans of chips as Slade tells him to _ stay _, heading into the bathroom.

“You need something, sir?” the man behind the counter asks. He’s old, with a Midwestern accent.

Robin shakes his head. “No. Just looking.” He goes back to staring at the potato chips. Ever since he’d come back, he’s been hungry almost all the time. The sour cream and onion flavor looks more appetizing than it ever has before.

_ The man in the bathroom is a mass murderer _ , Robin could say. _ He’s a rapist, too _. The man would call the police, and Robin would be taken away, and Slade would fight off half a dozen policemen.

Robin says nothing.

Slade returns, grabbing two large cans of chips and putting them on the counter before paying in cash. Robin following him out.

_ My name is Dick Grayson, _Robin could have told the man behind the counter.

But that would’ve been a lie.

* * *

Robin sees the green-and-white WELCOME TO STAR CITY sign as he stares out of the window, blinking a little. Slade maneuvers the vehicle easily. Robin doesn’t know how long he’s been driving, but it’s been a long time. Even, it seems, if Slade spends most of his time at home sleeping on the sofa, it doesn’t seem to bother him at all that he’s probably been driving twelve hours straight.

Slade snaps his fingers for Robin to get out of the car in front of an old but expensive looking building. Slade has a penthouse apartment, Robin realizes, hauling the bags up through the entrance area to the elevator. The place is just as luxurious as his home, but everything is new, well-pressed and freshly cleaner. There’s a bowl of mints on the dresser, and chocolate on the bed.

Slade throws his weapons duffel on the bed as Robin stares at the Star City skyline. Things gleam here, the sun reflecting off of windows, nothing like the constantly stormy Gotham City.

Then he heads for the shower. He gestures Robin in with him, turning on the spray too-hot as always. Robin winces a little, but he swears he’s almost used to it. Sometimes, Robin’s forced to his knees to pleasure Slade, or pushed up against the wall, but this time it seems like Slade is on a mission.

Robin would like to be useful.

Slade throws a towel as they get out, Robin catching it easily and rubbing down as fast as he can.

Slade doesn’t seem interested in getting any sleep, or putting on any clothes. Instead, he pulls out his phone and a tablet and sits on the bed, grabbing for the chocolate. Robin doesn’t bother putting on any clothes, either, not ones that Slade hasn’t given to him. Instead, he just sits next to Slade, curling up against the warmth of his much larger body. Robin’s skin looks washed-out next to Slade’s, even if it’s technically darker. Robin leans against him. Slade’s always had body hair everywhere, snowy white across his pectorals and all the way down to his crotch. It makes Robin feel like a boy.

He’s been looking forward to getting some rest that’s not half-there, interrupted by constant stops and by the car. Robin curls into himself for warmth against Slade, drifting off easily.

* * *

Slade has ideas about the clothes when they wake up. He’s in a casual suit, grey, the top few buttons of his shirt undone. Robin has a smaller, matching one—though this one is black, like his hair. He struggles a little with the tie that comes with it. Slade notices.

“Don’t bother,” he grumbles, tucking it back in the suitcase. Instead, he pulls back the collar of the shirt to reveal Robin’s real collar, the name of his master still gleaming on it. Making it visible.

This has to be an important meeting, if even Robin’s dressed up. He stops the burning in his face as he thinks of people seeing the collar. He’s still not used to it. Not totally.

“This is an important meeting, pet.” Fingers tilt Robin’s head up so Slade’s eye can narrow at him. “I expect you to be on your best behavior.”

“Yes, master,” Robin replies automatically, staring back up at Slade with his own wide eyes. Slade drops him.

There is a knocking on the door fifteen minutes later.

Robin follows him silently to the door, as if he was still on the leash—and he is, given the nanobots in his blood.

What he sees stuns him cold.

Robin recognizes the people at the door. He recognizes them from _ then _, when Slade was not his master, when he himself didn’t wear the collar that they can all see. They aren’t in their uniforms—but they haven’t made any attempt to hide who they are.

“Jade,” Slade greets, monotone. The door is pushed open. Billy Numerous stands there, out of costume—but Robin’s tailed him enough to know. He’s seen the files on Seymour “See-more”. These are people who know him, if they recognize him like he recognizes them.

Billy’s eyes are fixed on the collar.

Robin is so tired.

He just stares back, blinking slightly, trying not to think about it. Slade owns him. That’s that.

“Slade.” The woman named Jade smiles like a shark and Robin all at once knows who she is, the unmistakable slick voice hitting his ears as he zeroes in on her face. _ Cheshire _. Younger than Slade, older than the Titans.

They’re all lead into the suite, eyes on Slade, which Robin is grateful for. He doesn’t think he’d be able to take them all staring at him, remembering him being something that seems to be slipping through his fingers with every day that passes. Who was the boy who fought these people, lead his team?

Robin can barely recall.

“You’ve been hard to get a hold of lately,” Cheshire says. She invites herself in, Seymour and Billy following. Seymour stares at Robin with a wondering look, as if he’s trying to _ think _.

Robin stares to the side, pointedly putting himself in profile, anywhere Seymour can’t look at him straight on. That makes it easier, somehow.

They don’t have to know him. They can’t know him. They never saw him out of uniform, after all, not even a little bit.

“I’ve been busy,” Slade says vaguely. He gestures at the couches in the penthouse, looking out over the strangely bright Star City. The QUEEN of Queen Tower glints in the lowering sunlight, high above the rest of the buildings. A snap of his fingers.

Robin is sinking to a cross legged position at Slade’s feet before he can properly form thought to stop himself.

“Everyone’s been busy,” Billy says. A second Billy pops out of the first one. “Me and all my mes especially.” The two shake hands before the second one disappears. Slade ignores him.

“Well, I hope you’re available now, because the Brotherhood has plans that are going through—” Cheshire glances at Robin.

Slade waves his hand. “Say what you came here to say.”

“The plans are coming to fruition in the next few weeks, thanks in part to your help. We want you to be there—nothing sentimental, don’t worry. We suspect the Titans may have gotten wind of the plot, and we want the extra security.”

Robin tenses. The Titans.

“What’s left of them,” Slade says casually.

Robin feels something hot behind his eyes. He belongs to Slade.

“Batman’s with them now,” Cheshire points out. “I don’t need to remind you how lethal he is when it comes to our plans.”

“You want to pay me my Titans rates and then have me go up against the Bat,” Slade notes.

Cheshire frowns. “The Brotherhood isn’t out to—”

“The fee’s doubled, then. I’m glad we understand each other.”

They stare at each other, eyes narrowed, until Cheshire seems to purse her lips and back off. “Fine. I’ll discuss it with the Brain.”

Seymour is studying Robin again. Robin turns his head as far as it can go away from him.

Slade scoffs. “You pay my rates, and I get the date and place and time, and I’ll be there. My . . . projects . . . are nearing completion.” A hand threads through Robin’s hair, almost fond.

Cheshire notices. Her brow flicks up a in a cruel little gesture, eyes glancing at Robin. “A boy, Slade?”

Slade’s eyes narrow. “Not just any boy,” he says coolly.

Seymour’s eyes widen. “No way,” he says. “No _ way _.” He looks at Slade, incredulous, and Robin can feel it coming, the shame already coloring his face. “That’s not . . . Robin?”

Everyone’s eyes are on him.

It hurts so terribly, and yet Robin is so awfully numb.

“Not anymore,” Slade says.

No more Robin.

Nothing to be ashamed of, if he’s not Robin. Not anything but Slade’s. Just _ Renegade _.

Three different, new Billies pop into existence.

“Hey!”

“We can’t let him—”

“—tell anyone—”

“—what we’re up to!”

Slade’s eye goes cold. “Oh, don’t worry, he’s _ well trained _.”

“Are you _ sure _ ?” Seymour asks skeptically, staring in some sort of awe at Robin. “What _ happened _to him?”

“_ I did _.” Slade’s sneering teeth are that of a viper. “Why don’t I give a demonstration?”

Cheshire raises a brow. “Slade—”

Slade snaps his fingers. “Show them what you do, pet.”

His legs widen.

Robin freezes.

He knows what that means. He knows what he should do, in front of everyone, people he used to _ know _—people he used to fight, enemies, and this is so, so wrong—

Slade’s hand tightens in his hair.

Robin’s blinking back something hot from behind his eyes.

“Please,” he begs.

Slade’s hand is in his pocket. The trigger is drawn out and Robin wants to take it back because the look in his eyes is cruel, dangerous.

Robin is in too much pain to scream. He’s being eaten alive, again, his blood turned to acid that burns through his veins and liquefies his muscles as he falls forward, screaming in all but reality. Nothing makes sense, the only thing that he knows is the pain, something inside him making sure he feels the sheer agony. 

Then it’s over and Robin is left staring up at Slade’s furious face and his hands are shaking, his whole body is shivering as he moves forward in between Slade’s legs. For all to see, for all to know, and Robin is _ nothing _.

His hands are almost shaking too hard to unzip Slade’s fly and it takes him one try, two tries to do it right before leaning in.

Nobody makes a sound. Robin is glad he can’t hear them as he begins to mouth Slade over the fabric of his boxers, feeling the man’s thick cock begin to stand to attention. There is no hand on the back of Robin’s head. He wonders what their expressions would be. Disgust. Loathing. Condescension, amusement, incredulity. Shivering hands free Slade, Robin taking the head of Slade’s cock in his mouth and tasting precum on his tongue. Slade is getting off on this, isn’t he? Robin being his whore.

What else is new.

Slade snaps his hips and Robin is choking suddenly. He knows better than to bite, than to stop it, to do anything but let Slade’s length slip down his throat as Slade enjoys him. Tears bead in his eyes, the agony as he begins to asphyxiate. Slade leaves it longer there for longer than Robin remembers him ever before, until dark spots dance in front of Robin’s eyes.

Slade begins to thrust, drawing out almost all the way before shoving his length back down Robin’s throat in a brutal, quick rhythm. Something designed to pleasure Slade quickly without a care for Robin’s comfort, saliva slicking the man’s member as it comes out with the slick noises as he pushes back inside, over and over and over until Robin is swallowing frantically around the man’s cock to avoid spilling any of him. He’d have to lick that up.

Robin just wants this to be done.

He cleans Slade off with his tongue, lets Slade’s larger hands put himself back. Shudders there between those legs until he’s shunted off to the side, finished with his duties.

Seymour’s face is the first thing he sees, eyes so wide he can see the whites. His face has gone ashen, and he looks slightly nauseous, as if he’s trying to push back vomit. Billy’s eyes are half bulging out of his skull. Cheshire simply sits there with one brow raised, face cold and unreadable.

Slade’s eye flicks dangerously between the group, taking in all their expressions. A hand threads through Robin’s hair again, and Robin is glad of something to ground him. Nobody had stopped Slade.

Robin belongs to Slade. It’s what he’s _ for _.

“I presume our business is concluded.”

They all file out. Slowly, silently, glancing at Robin. Except for Seymour, who can’t even look at him. Robin wonders how old he is—a little older than him, he remembers. Maybe a few years.

The door clicks shut.

Slade’s trigger clicks right behind Robin with cruel finality. Robin _ screams _, knees giving out from under him as he falls to the carpet. The nanobots have him again, the indescribable pain of it, unspeakable and as perverse as the first time Slade moved inside of him.

Slade’s black boots are what filter into Robin’s vision as he blinks wetness away from his eyes. Slade is speaking. It makes his ears ring.

“You will _ never—” _Robin is thrown violently backwards as Slade’s shoe catches him in the face. Blood spurts down his nose, the mark of it half imprinted on his face, dirt and tread pushing into his skin. “—disobey me like that again.”

Robin can feel the near violent force of Slade’s disappointment and that’s the thing that really starts the tears falling. All he had done was beg. Hesitate. He doesn’t understand why his master is so angry—

The next kick collides with his ribs. Robin hears something snap, but more importantly he feels it in his gut, nerves screaming at him as the bone is displaced. “Please!” It hurts to talk but he has to. Slade has to stop hurting him. Robin has to be _ good _again. “Please! I’m sorry! Master, please!”

Slade’s shoe is heavy on his chest as Robin struggles to draw painful, aching breaths. The sides of his face are streaked with tears, shuddering violently the whole time. “Tell me what you are.”

“I-I’m your whore,” Robin whispers.

The pressure increases. Robin gasps, clawing at the shoe, doing nothing. It feels like the weight of the world right there on his chest. “Louder.”

“I’m your whore!”

Slade leans in. Robin wheezes. “And _ whores _do what they’re told. Immediately. I will not have you questioning me.”

“Yes, master! Yes!” Robin tries to speak up but the pressure is too much. He swears he can feel his bones start to creak under it like old wood.

The shoe rolls him off to the side. Robin curls in on himself, shaking, feeling as if the weight still isn’t gone. Is Slade still angry at him? He can’t still be angry? Robin is sorry, he’s sorry, he’s so so so sorry. The words, nameless apologies, are slipping from his lips as he shivers there, helpless, making the carpet wet with his tears.


	32. XXXII

Robin sits on the counter of the hotel room bathroom. In one hand, held delicately and a little awkwardly, he has a razorblade. Slade stands in front of him, leaning down almost imperceptibly so that Robin can reach. Shaving cream covers the sides of his face, Robin carefully shearing away the bits of hair poking up through the skin. Slade’s goatee is still intact, of course, Robin shaving precisely along the edges of it as Slade had taught him.

His hands are shaking almost imperceptibly. He has to do this right, can’t mess it up, can’t nick Slade’s skin on pain of—probably something worse happening to him. Robin has to be  _ good _ . Robin almost sighs with relief when he’s done, feeling as if he’s passed some kind of test he doesn’t understand. He looks up at Slade.

“Good boy,” Slade purrs, and Robin feels that familiar warmth of a job well done.

* * *

They’re back on the road.

Robin doesn’t know where they’re going—but it looks to be a long journey. It’s a blur of hotels, rest stops, and vacant scenery. He knows how to drive, but he knows he’s not allowed. He’s more useful in other ways. Robin could ask where they’re going, but it doesn’t truly matter. Slade will tell him what to do. Where to go. Is this the meeting with the people from before? Robin wonders. Will he have to see them again?

Things always happen whether they want them to or not.

* * *

This hotel isn’t nearly as nice as the other ones. There’s still only one bed. Robin wonders what the woman at the front desk had thought when Slade had walked in with him—maybe, perhaps, that Robin would be sleeping on the pullout couch. Instead, he gets his throat fucked in the shower, water raining down on either side and harmonizing with the beating of his heart in his ears. He rubs soap up and down Slade’s back, feeling the dangerous muscles under his hands and shivering. Robin is a lot stronger than he was—but he is still not a match for Slade. Not even a little. Robin doesn’t remember when he started feeling  _ awe  _ in relation to his master, the sheer power and danger that clings to him, but now it burns in his chest.

They sleep, Robin curled with the sheets thrown over him, Slade’s heat right next to him. Robin is glad of it, because the night is cold and there isn’t enough heat with the large windows, and because it reminds him in the very middle of the night that he’s not alone.

Robin gasps, eyes wide as he feels the cold sweat around him from a nightmare, and before he truly realizes what he’s doing his arms are wrapping around Slade. He’s hot, much larger than Robin. Robin feels him going tense, but he’s not pushed off, so he buries his face in the man’s chest and feels himself going back to sleep. It’s warm. Nothing’s leaving him. Slade is here. Robin’s master is here.

* * *

The Renegade uniform, along with the two swords, is pulled out. Slade pushes it into Robin’s hands and he dresses, shamelessly in front of Slade, in the hotel room. Slade does a few stretches before donning his own uniform, dangerous in orange and black, slimmer than the one Robin’s used to. This mask is fabric, so you can see only the littlest suggestion of Slade’s moods under the hood—if you’re not looking at his body language, that is.

They slip out of the window together in the early morning, still so dark, but Robin finds his eyes picking up the light much easier than they used to. Is it another side effect of the serum? He wasn’t told what it really does, but it seems to be enhancing  _ everything _ . The air feels good on his skin. This isn’t so bad. This is exciting, too, another opportunity to make Slade pleased with him; to be good, to do well. The only thing he’s focused on is the mission, the work he has to do flipping through the air, and  _ Slade _ .

The house that they show up at is  _ big _ . It’s almost as big as Slade’s, but instead of being strangely old, this one is all slick corners and chrome, like the kind of thing you might find in Metropolis. It’s right in the middle of a residential neighborhood of houses that look just like it; business owner, Robin catalogues, or politician.

This is a hit, he realizes.

Slade is going to kill him.

Maybe that thought should inspire something in him like the way it used to, but Robin is numb. His master will do what he likes.

Slade flips cleanly over the security fence, jumping from a taller, close building. Robin follows, feeling the shock of it reverberate up through his legs. The serum makes him sturdier, too, or else he never would’ve been able to make the jump. Slade runs towards one of the lower windows, Robin sprinting after him. Slade stops for a few seconds.

“You know what that is?”

“A window alarm?”

“Right.” Robin tilts his head to Slade. “Once I trigger it, we have about a minute before the private security gets here, and then five minutes before the police do. We’re not going to be here when they arrive. Understand?”

Robin nods.

He will make Slade pleased with him.

The crashing of the window is loud as Slade hits it, kicking the dangerous glass on the sides of it before he climbs through. Robin doesn’t hear anything—the alarm has to be silent, then. The place is dark, but Slade seems to know where he’s going, have some kind of backup schematics that he’d gotten ahold of. It takes maybe fifteen seconds to find the staircase in the large place, Robin scrambling up after Slade. They come to a long hall, with doors on either side.

One of them opens.

Robin’s eyes widen seconds before he sees the man—old, tall, once in shape but now more fat than muscle. He holds a shotgun in his hands, face twisted in a snarl. His eyes seem to bulge when he sees Slade, seconds before he pulls the trigger—

Slade is too quick for him. He’s running at him before Robin’s even fully digested the information, dodging to the side of the obvious bullet path. Robin goes low, meaning to go in between the man’s legs.

Two shots go off in such close proximity they seem to be one. A gap opens in the wall from the shotgun, Slade unharmed, the man screaming and grabbing his knee as blood spurts. He falls to the ground, twitching and yelling about his security.

A man is dying, and Robin just stands there, waiting for Slade to finish him off. Instead, that blue eye stares pitilessly at him, snapping his fingers for Robin to approach him. It’s not audible over the yells, but Robin sees the gesture all the same.

Something shudders inside him as he moves forward. It seems to come in slow motion, Robin’s body almost moving without his consent. But it does anyways, each step forward another step towards something he’s all too aware of.

Something cold is pressed into his palm. Robin looks down to see the handle of Slade’s sidearm. The man is still screaming. The security will be here soon.

“Kill him,” Slade orders, and Robin hears him with perfect clarity.

Robin cocks the gun.

Robin feels numb, feels nothing. This is the ending of something, he realizes, the beginning of something else. He has to please Slade. There is nothing else here, nothing else for him, nothing else left but his master.

The man screams. He’s begging, now, but it seems far away. Tears trickle down a red and desperate face of a man who may or may not be innocent. Robin’s hands shake violently as he raises the weapon. He doesn’t want this. Robin doesn’t want this and he doesn’t want to do this more terribly than anything else he hasn’t wanted to do. He would do anything else to please Slade but there is nothing else. Nothing at all.

Robin aims. It would take a shot to the chest, or to the head, as Slade has taught him. Easy. Simple. How cruelly the human body falls apart. Does he have family? Children? Are they here, listening to him die? Robin wonders. What made him into this? What brought him here, what brought Robin here, to this single instant of murder?

Robin shuts his eyes.

_ Good boy _ , Slade will say.  _ Good boy _ .

Robin squeezes the trigger before he can think, he can know, and the sound makes his ears ring like a church bell tolling a death knell, blood pumping for the beats of the cord.

There is a single black hole in the middle of the forehead of a nameless man. There is a trickle of blood from his mouth. His eyes stare sightlessly.

“Good boy,” Slade murmurs, and he smiles under that strange mask.

Robin crumples. Everything is bright, loud, and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears like war drums. He can  _ feel  _ himself shaking, deep in his bones, like something keeping him moored to this place has snapped itself undone. That man is dead.

Robin killed him.

Robin killed him, pulled the trigger, and now the man lays with a hole in his skull and Robin  _ killed him _ and it’s  _ all his fault  _ and this is real. This isn’t a nightmare, this is real, and the man is dead, and Robin killed him. Robin killed him. Robin ki—

Robin’s face snaps to the side. His face aches violently, a bruise already forming. Slade crouches in front of him, and Robin doesn’t have to know him well to see the expression of anger on his face. That makes him sob, the fact that Slade is upset, shaking as he does everything he can to get ahold of himself like Slade wants.

“We’re on a fucking mission,” Slade snarls. Robin holds his cheek, whimpering.

Slade is all he has.

Robin throws himself at him bodily, arms wrapping as far as they can go around Slade’s shoulders. He’s still warm through the suit’s slick texture, still  _ there _ . His hands form fists in Slade’s suit as he sobs, whole body shaking with the fear of it, the knowledge of his own actions. The dead man in front of him. Slade is warm, familiar, Slade is his master. Robin belongs to him. Slade isn’t going to leave him, because Robin has a collar, and he belongs to Slade.

Robin keeps crying, less violently, calmed by the larger presence. It’s nice, to hold Slade there—

With one smooth motion, Robin is pulled up into the air. He clings to Slade with a squeak, bridal style, head still buried in Slade’s chest. Robin can’t bear to look as Slade carries him out, feels the door crack open, clinging harder. Slade has him. It’s all going to be all right, he knows now. It all makes sense again, in the dark where his face is pressed to Slade’s armor. It’s  _ nice _ , it’s  _ okay _ , and all the confusing, painful things are gone for now. He can rest.

Slade stops.

There is a tenseness in his muscles. Something is wrong. Robin clings to him harder, shaking, but there is nothing to be done. Robin’s let down on his knees in the grass, adjusting to the very early morning, kneeling in front of Slade. He doesn’t feel like he can get up without a rolling in his stomach and a sickness that goes bone deep. Robin sees the man dead on the floor again.

What he  _ really  _ sees is something he barely recognizes: three people in purple and one man—cyborg?—in bronze armor, completely covered. Robin should know who these people are. But it’s been so long, and his head hurts, and the man with the hole in his head screams behind his eyes.

“Get up, boy,” Slade snarls. Robin grabs Slade’s arm to steady himself. Slade thinks this isn’t good. This isn’t good. These people are here to—arrest him? They look like heroes.

“Wilson,” the man says. He seems to be in charge. He wears a helmet. “And Robin.”

“His name is Renegade,” Slade says coolly. “Now, I suggest you  _ get out of our way _ .”

“We have a score to settle,” the man says, voice as icy as frost.

“Mento—“ The woman next to him starts, but Mento rolls right over her.

“Beast Boy is dead.” The voice carries a trace of something that Robin knows well and his heart sinks because he knows the  _ grief _ , no matter how well hidden in his gut it is. It twitches up to meet his heart and he feels it, with the pain of the dead man, with the pain of everything else.

“He interfered in my affairs,” Slade replies, heartless. “It’s the  _ price  _ that children pay for being involved in this. Maybe you’ll think twice before bringing a child into this business.”

“Doom Patrol,” Mento replies, voice loud and ringing through Robin’s ears on a level that’s more than just vocal. It seems to thrum inside his head as the words continue. “Attack.”

The four of them rush forwards.

Slade is almost instantly encased in a cocoon of purple fabric. Robin realizes it’s one of the people, with elastic powers, trying to take him prisoner. Mento stands there, intensely focused, seemingly not doing anything but staring at Slade—

And the robot man is coming for Robin. Robin freezes, watching the thumping, inevitable footsteps come closer, coming to—hurt him, to get him, to take him away from Slade. His hands shake as he takes out his swords, but seconds later he thinks of the dead man and he can’t swing them, can’t make it work, doesn’t have it inside him to even  _ try _ . He hurts, it aches, and Robin does the only thing he can think of—running forward and sliding between the man’s legs. Just as he suspected, the armor robot thing makes him slow, so Robin is able to scamper away. Make sure that he gets far enough away to have things be okay.

Slade is untangling himself from the woman slowly, eyes narrowed viciously at Mento. Robin can see the both of them glaring at each other, faces flat and uninterested and fully  _ concentrating  _ on something he does not know or understand. Mento’s face is turning red. Slade looks like he sees nothing else.

“Damn it!” Mento hisses. Slade grins, jerked and strange.

“You think I don’t know what kind of games people like you play? I use more of my mind than the people you’re used to  _ hurting _ .”

“Fucking freak,” Mento snarls, and he flicks something on his head knobs further, and Slade is going paler, and Robin—Robin can’t have that. That isn’t okay, that doesn’t work, that doesn’t make sense—

Robin’s running before he knows it at breakneck speed, stopping not even for the prone, bandaged body he sees on the ground. With a yell, he’s tackling Mento, hoping to bring his helmet off, break his concentration, anything.

The pounding of the robot man echoes in his ears as Robin struggles to get off the ground. He’s still so weak. His hands are shaking. His whole body is shaking, really, Mento has fallen to the ground, Robin has put them on the ground on the grass with something on his head, and this isn’t okay—it’s not working. This isn’t okay, this isn’t okay.

The pounding stops. Robin looks up to see the man raising a fist, eyes as deceptively blank, so blank that Robin is certainly sure that this is a robot and not a suit of armor. He wants to move, he does, but this man is dead just like the other one and Robin, Robin  _ can’t _ —

A bright light takes over his vision. Robin shuts his eyes but it’s not enough to stop the vectors of lightning from taking over his irises, burning behind them like a fire. He hears a buzzing noise, loud and aching, hears the collapsing of metal so loudly. There’s a jerk, and Robin’s dragged across the grass in a short burst so fast that his legs start to burn. Through the bright lightning Robin sees Slade, eye narrowed at something in front of him. The staff in his hand has lightning arcing along the top of it, which he quickly realizes must’ve been what was used to take down the Robot.

Mento is getting up. He’s within inches of Slade, looking slightly dazed, but Slade has other plans—

He raises his staff, and it short-circuits. Robin can see the faded outline of an electrical figure twitching around the staff, using it, and he wonders about the prone man he saw on the field. Slade jerks, unable to hurt Mento while he spasms with electricity, enough to kill a  _ normal man _ . But Slade is not a normal man, spasming there while Robin watches, paralyzed, and the elastic woman begins to get up from the grass where she was left. This isn’t good.

Something tickles his mind and Robin’s head jerks to see Mento staring at him, eyes focused intently. Something is wrong about this, terribly so. Robin puts his hands to his head as his blood starts to pound, staring at the strange man in the helmet.

It is a sensation even worse than Slade’s nanobots. This is like his whole self is unravelling, as if his thoughts are coming apart at the seams, an arrow split by another, longer one and unable to be repaired. Robin’s mouth is open but he can’t hear himself screaming as the thing probes deeper into his mind, inside him, dry and huge and viciously cruel. Robin is seeing his parents die. He’s seeing Kori die in his dreams, he’s hearing Raven suffer, he’s seeing Gar die on his sword and it’s all there, all at once, all in one horrible black monster that represents everything he’s lost and all the people he’s let die and all the pain that is being inflicted upon him. Robin cannot exist like this, he is going to lose himself, he’s sure of it, the last little bit of him coming apart before it ever thinks to stop.

Robin is on the ground, still yelling, eyes still wide and afraid as he twitches. There is something wrong. Something awful, unstoppably wrong. It hurts. 

Wait. Why doesn’t it hurt anymore? It should, it had, it makes sense that it had. Bright flashing blue and red jams his vision, all he can see, and he slowly comes back to his hearing just to have sirens blast through his eardrums louder than he thinks they ever have before.

Someone grabs his collar. Robin thrashes desperately, with all the little might he has left.

“Calm down,” Slade snarls in his ear. Robin goes limp instantly. Before he knows what’s happening, he’s hauled up onto Slade’s shoulder, head thrown over it and legs down Slade’s chest. It hurts. His head hurts, but now it’s somewhere deep in his bones. Slade is running past the flashing lights, ducking into the shadows. With a single jump, grabbing at the fence, he’s over it and sprinting away. Robin can see over his shoulder, wondering who’s chasing them—he can’t see anyone, and the horrible pain in his head is finally gone.

Beast Boy.

They were mad at me for Beast Boy.

Robin feels numb.

_ All I have is Slade _ .

The collar burns around his neck.


	33. XXXIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, not as much happens, but it's a set up for the big ending. honestly, i have misgivings - i think there really should be another chapter between this one and the end. depending on how i feel, i might write it, but it's not looking great (i'm bad at going back and changing anything at all, i'm too fucking lazy.) i hope you guys will forgive me.

The apartment seems cold and dark. Slade tosses things at Robin and he dutifully folds them up into the suitcase as fast as he can. They have to get out of here. Robin understands that getting caught after the—

The  _ assassination _ —

Had put people on their scent. Slade pays in cash. They’re out the door before Robin knows it, pushed into the car, and they start to drive. The urban landscape gives way to countryside, giving way to fields as they travel across the country. It’s not the same way they came, so they can’t be going back to Slade’s house. Robin wonders if they’re going to find the Brotherhood of Evil, but he can’t be sure. Robin doesn’t want to think about it. All he can taste on his tongue is Slade, feel their stairs on the back of his neck. He wishes his master didn’t require things like that from him.

Robin wishes it wasn’t what he’s  _ for _ . But that’s the thing about wishes: they don’t come true. Not now, not ever. Robin knows that. This is his life. He’s learned to accept that.

Robin closes his eyes. All he can see is the bullethole in the man’s head. There’s blood around the edges of it,  _ something  _ beginning to leak onto the floor. Behind his eyes, the man’s eyes swivel to look at him accusingly. Robin’s eyes snap open. He tries not to shiver, not to cry.

He’s just killed a man. That shouldn’t bother him, because his master asked it of him, because he’d been  _ good _ . It still aches inside him, makes him scream. There is nothing to do, nothing to think about.

So Robin doesn’t.

He pushes it down. It’s not real, it didn’t happen. It doesn’t matter. He looks over at Slade, who deftly keeps a hand on the wheel as he stares at the road with a lidded eye. Slade is what’s important. Robin touches his collar, feels the letters under his fingers.

* * *

He still doesn’t get any sleep, Robin’s exhausted when they get to the hotel—this one’s dingy and two-bit, and Robin watches while Slade gives an obviously false name to the man at the front desk, who doesn’t seem to care. The only bed has a decades old mattress and barely enough sheets to cover it. The air conditioner rattles loudly, but that doesn’t stop Slade from scanning the place for bugs, pulling Robin over and telling him to look the place over.

In the end, they find nothing, which is just as well. Robin is exhausted, and he’d just as well go to sleep.

Slade has him begging and writhing in the sheets before the evening turns to night, sweaty hands fisting almost to the mattress as he twitches and spasms. It’s the games Slade likes to play, Robin at his mercy. A heavy hand clamps over his mouth as he cries out with the sheer feeling of being brought to the edge, the pleasure of falling over it.

“Careful, or everyone will hear how much of a slut you are,” Slade murmurs in his ear. Robin whimpers. Slade calls him a  _ slut _ , but he doesn’t seem to mind; it doesn’t inspire his harshness. Instead what makes Robin  _ good  _ is spreading his legs for Slade as the man does what he wishes. Robin will be good.

Robin passes out with come dripping down his thighs, curled up. He doesn’t even notice how he clings to Slade, face buried in the man’s neck.

* * *

Slade’s morning fuck is stiff and short. He seems preoccupied, even as he comes with a shudder, leaving Robin to clean himself up as best he can in the shower. Instead, Slade spends the morning putting together disguises for them both—new ones, with new aliases, new faces. Robin’s spiked hair is put up in a baseball cap, and a pair of heavy framed glasses are put over his face. Slade draws a mole on Robin’s left cheek and gives him a football jersey to wear. Slade braids his own hair, putting in a glass eye and a mustache. Robin would know him under anything, he thinks, but the effect is still strange.

_ I killed someone. _

_ _ _ _ _ I killed someone. _

_ _ _ _ _ I killed someone. _

The thought is the only thing that goes through his mind as he’s driven through the rolling fields.  _ I  _ is a funny word.  _ I  _ is nothing, nothing but SLADE’S, and maybe that means that Slade was the one killing someone. Slade kills people all the time, Robin can live with that. Slade killed him, really.

The face still aches.  _ Slade killed you. Why are you haunting me? Haunt him.  _ It’s a funny idea, that Slade is ever haunted. Robin doesn’t know if he remembers how to laugh or how to smile. SLADE’S doesn’t need to laugh or smile. He only needs to follow his master’s orders. That’s what he was doing; it was easy, it made sense, it was the  _ right  _ thing to do.

Beast Boy died because Robin didn’t realize that. He didn’t know he was SLADE’S back then. Beast Boy died because Robin was stupid, worthless, idiotic without Slade there. He was nothing. Beast Boy died. It’s all Robin’s fault. They should kill him for it, but he’s better now, not the  _ same _ . Robin is not his own. It wouldn’t be fair to kill him, not to Slade, who owns him.

Robin can’t let himself die. He can’t let down  _ Slade  _ like that, can’t bear to, even if he would never see the disappointment writ on the man’s face. Even the very thought makes him want to scream. Instead, he will  _ obey _ .

Robin looks over at Slade, as if expecting some attention from the man for making a decision he’d approve of. Nothing happens, Slade still silent at the wheel, eye fixed on the road. Robin wonders if Slade looks over when he’s not looking. Probably not.

He falls asleep to the humming of the engine, leaning against the window with it echoing through his skeleton.

* * *

The complex that they end up at is a cold grey fortress beneath the trees. At some point, the road had deteriorated, leaving Slade driving the car over hard dirt that almost makes Robin bounce in his seat, or would have, if he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Slade parks in front of the nondescript building, unlocking Robin’s door. Robin gets out, glad to stretch his legs, breathing in the scent of vegetation along with the slight acrid stench of pollution. He can’t see where it’s coming from, but he supposes it must be the building.

Slade waves him over to carry some of the bags, and they walk over to the main entrance. Robin’s pulled back by his collar as Slade turns to what looks to be a camera, talking into it.

“It’s Wilson,” Slade says bluntly. “Let me in.”

A pause, then the door whirrs open to reveal a long slate hallway, exactly the same color as the outside. Slade enters, Robin following in his footsteps to a  _ t _ . There’s nothing for him to look around at. All he feels is the shoulder of the duffel digging into him.

Cheshire walks out into the middle of the hall, gesturing for Slade to come closer.

“Slade.”

“Jade.”

“We’ve been waiting for you.” Cheshire begins to walk forwards, still completely confident, even though she’s closer to Robin’s height than Slade’s and looks quite small next to him. “The preliminary arrangements are settled. You brought the item . . . ?”

“Renegade has it,” Slade says, gesturing to Robin’s bag. Cheshire glances behind herself briefly, at Robin, and Robin can’t tell what expression she wears behind her eyes, even maskless.

As if they didn’t already know, he mocks himself.  _ As if they couldn’t all tell you’re Slade’s whore _ . Robin wonders if it’s blindingly obvious. It seems like it should be, something tainting him so obviously that every decent person knows to stay away.

In the end, they change into their uniforms, before going back down the hall.

They end up in a huge room, Slade taking a seat at the huge table and gesturing Robin to his feet. Robin can’t see anything from there but the feet filing in, make out some of the conversation as they begin. Slade’s hand threads in his hair. Robin leans back into it. All he feels over his usual numbness is  _ tired _ , leaning back against Slade’s knee and letting the exhaustion of traveling overtake him so easily. The words hum around him, Robin catching snatches of them from behind his eyes. None of it means anything to him.

Robin dreams of somewhere warm, inviting. It’s just past the glass, glass that does not give under begging fists, a bat and his butler and Barbara and they’re laughing without him and all Robin can feel is the cold, icy hand on his shoulder. The glove is black as night as it pulls him aware from somewhere he cannot be, back down to the ground. It’s cold beneath his knees, something is hard under his cheek—

Robin blinks his eyes open to the darkness under the table, mumbling something to himself. He wipes his mouth hastily to stop himself from drooling all over the floor. Slade’s hand curls into his hair, pulls him tighter, in between his thighs. For half a second Robin expects to have to suck him off right here, under the table, but instead he’s kept there. Slowly, Robin’s head leans against his muscled thigh. It’s softer than he thinks, or maybe he’s just tired. Slade’s hand cards through his hair, repeating slightly, soothing him.

It feels . . . comfortable, on his knees, resting against Slade. Robin doesn’t feel—not happy, exactly, but he feels for the first time  _ content  _ with where he belongs. He leans back into Slade’s hand, buries his face in his thigh, a hand resting on Slade’s leg.

Being like this isn’t so bad.

* * *

Robin wakes up a second time at the blaring of a loud, shrieking alarm. He’s blinking bleary eyes and doing his best to cover his ears before he’s being dragged out from under the table by his collar. Slade hauls him to his feet, already standing up himself, reaching for his mask. It’s pulled onto his face, highlighting his features barely under it, and Robin braces himself on the table to get his balance. Slade hands him his weapons, which slip into the sheaths behind him easily enough.

“Follow me.” Robin runs along the corridors after him, alarms blaring in his ears. It gives him a headache, makes his ears ring, but he doesn’t dare say anything about it. Instead, he ignores it, pushing it down as far as it can go. He has a  _ mission _ , and that feels good. Slade presses a small earpiece into his hand as he waits for one of the sliding doors, Robin slipping it into his ear as he watches Slade fiddle with the nanobot controller. He wonders what he’s doing but doesn’t have time to ask before he’s barreling after Slade once again.

The shadows in the next room cast themselves long and dark, the hall’s lights blown out halfway down the hall. In the very back, Robin isn’t able to see, turning to Slade for direction. He slows, eyes narrowed, waiting for anything to come out—but nothing moves. Robin strains his ears.

“I know you’re there, Batman,” Slade says coolly.

Something spikes in Robin’s chest.

“Not Batman.” The man that steps out isn’t nearly as tall, but his eyes are narrowed just as dangerous. Cyborg stands with one of his weapons pointed at Slade, arm cannon powering up. “You’ve got me to deal with.”

Slade laughs. It’s not a nice laugh. Slade’s laughs never are, Robin knows. This one does not bode well. “I’m terrified,” he says coldly. Then he’s leaping forward and Robin is leaping forward after him. Except Slade wasn’t wrong, because from behind him Batman curls out of the shadows.

Bruce’s grip on Robin’s arm is bruising. Robin pulls himself out of it, drawing one of his knives, eyes narrowed. It’s his job to fight for Slade.

“Kill him,” Slade orders.

Robin jumps at him. He registers how little he thinks before responding to Slade’s order, even as he’s deflected off of Bruce’s gauntlets. Robin’s not a match for him. He knows that, as Bruce swings and Robin ducks, a tango of limbs and fighting styles and old, terrible familiarity.

“You don’t have to do this, Dick.”

Whoever Dick is Robin should know, and  _ oh _ —that’s him that Bruce is talking about, a part of him he barely recalls, one before all of this, before Slade. Robin does have to do this. He belongs to Slade. This is what he does, this is how it works, and Bruce wouldn’t  _ understand _ . Robin has to obey him, or people get hurt, or bad things happen. Robin has to fight. Slade’s will must be carried out.

Bruce doesn’t understand.

Robin aches for him, misses him, he thinks. If his emotions truly function anymore, he would miss him, if the world made sense, he would miss him, if Robin wasn’t shattered and then put back together in a parody of himself, he would miss him. But this is his life.

And so he doesn’t.

Slade catches Bruce’s attention and then suddenly Robin is facing Cyborg’s half-mechanical gaze. It’s as cold as the metal that makes him up, freezing over. Robin jumps at him; the cannon goes off, blowing a hole in the wall behind them. Was it meant to kill? It couldn’t have been.

They trade blows. Cy has gotten better, much better than when Robin tried to train him. Maybe Bruce has been giving him lessons. Maybe he’s changed. 

Cyborg has changed.

Robin parries with his swords but he’s distracted by Bruce’s growling; Cy is too quick, and he has him in an icy, dangerous headlock.

Warm breath is at his ear, and for once it isn’t Slade’s. It feels wrong and strange and Robin wants Slade back, suddenly, violently, struggling.

“If there’s anything of the Robin I knew,” Cy says, “he would want me to kill you.”

_ Yes _ .

Robin goes limp.

Cyborg spins him away. He’s pressed against the wall, grabbing at his swords again. Bruce and Slade crash through the wall where Cyborg’s blast had gone, snarling at each other the whole time. They sound like animals. Robin feels like an animal.

Bruce comes crashing through, battered and bleeding. He snarls.

“We’re leaving, boy,” Slade declares.

“Like hell you are,” Cyborg snarls. Robin turns to Slade, tries to go to him, but he’s blocked by the hulking man.

“The Titans? Batman?” Slade mocks. “We have the entire Brotherhood of Evil here.”

“And we have a secret weapon,” Cyborg sneers back. “Negative Man?”

The lights go out.

Slade moves in the darkness, or Robin  _ thinks  _ it’s Slade, but that’s before the sprinkler system turns on. Something is going wrong in the commotion, Robin clawing his way with his swords, cutting into something.

“Master!” There is nothing in his earpiece. It’s static is starting to hurt him, Robin yelling for his master. There’s something wrong. Lightning flashes, electricity, and Robin sees where Slade is. He lunges at him, jumping over a crack in the tile from Cyborg’s misfired arm cannon.

Robin lands in the arms of someone heavy and old, pawing at the armor as best he can. “Master?”

“Never,” Bruce whispers. Robin can feel the air as a punch is drawn back and he flinches away, trying to fight it, struggling with all he has—

Everything goes black.


	34. XXXIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all . . . aren't gonna forgive me for this  
:x

Robin wakes up, not for the first time in his life, strapped down. He yanks on the straps, doing his best to fight back against them, but there is nothing. The lights above him are dimmed, the place curving strangely—it’s tiny, the walls metallic, and Robin realizes belatedly he’s in the back of a truck.

“Master.” No answer. Robin shudders, tugging on his bindings. “Master?”

Nothing.

Panic rises in him like the tide. Robin rocks against the straps, yelling, screaming. Slade is gone. Where is Slade? There’s something wrong, something terribly wrong, something so wrong that to even think of it brings agony but here it  _ is  _ and Robin does not know how to live like this. How to exist. He  _ screams _ , shrieks, fights with every ounce of energy but there is nothing.

Robin doesn’t know when he tires himself out so much that there is nobody left to listen, when his throat is dry and raw, but he shudders there. Slade is gone. Something is terribly, awfully wrong, in a way that he can’t explain. It makes him sick to his stomach. It makes him want to scream until all the walls come down and there is nothing left to see.

Then there is nothing. He’s left in horrible silence with nothing left but the strange, pulsing noises behind him—Robin realizes at the thought that they’re fighting, that people are fighting.  _ Still  _ fighting? How long was he out? Where’s Slade? Robin presses at the bonds again, but nothing happens. He can feel tears beading at his eyes, trickling down his cheeks, hot and hated but he is  _ alone  _ and it’s all crashing down and it’s all gone—

Light. Real light, not just from the dim overheads in the back of the van. It cracks it open, the sounds of murmured voices, Robin straining to hear them.

“—couldn’t disable the nanobots, but they should be deactivated,” one of the voices explains. Robin can’t place it. The footsteps that come into the van are soft, as if the person stepping isn’t totally there and they’re familiar, too familiar, something burning within him that makes him want to  _ scream _ .

Fiery hair falls over him in a curtain, almost like his master’s but much longer, much more dangerous. Robin blinks up at a face he’s only seen in his dreams, and for a few seconds he’s  _ convinced  _ he’s hallucinating, even though . . . even though this is real, even though it makes sense that he would be able to see her.

_ Star. _

_ _ _ _ _ Kori. _

_ _ _ _ “Star,” Robin breathes.

Her eyes stare at him and they carry a pain inside them that Robin thinks he will never understand or be able to imagine. They could glow with anger but now they glow with a kind of reserved pain, fingers making their way across Robin’s cheek.

“Please let me go,” Robin begs.

“You will just go back to Slade,” she whispers.

“I need to see him,” Robin tries to explain, desperate. If anyone would understand it was Star, he thinks, he prays. “Please. I  _ need  _ to.”

“No.” Star’s green eyes blink, then faster, and a drop of tearful rain lands on Robin’s cheek and blends with his own. “No. I will not let you go back to the man who has hurt you.”

There is nothing Robin can say to that, because Slade  _ has  _ hurt him,  _ does  _ hurt him. He doesn’t know how to explain that that’s just what Robin’s  _ for _ , that it’s Slade’s right to hurt him. He doesn’t think she would understand after all.

“The nanobots no longer function,” Star says sorrowfully. “Not in you. He cannot hurt you.”

That’s a silly concept, a ridiculous idea. Slade can hurt whoever he wants. He will hurt Robin if Robin is bad. He begins to work his hands along the bonds, hoping that they will give somewhere. Give him something. Anything to work.

Robin  _ prays _ .

But there is no hope, none, even though he has to be near Slade.

And yet—

He can’t deny that he feels safe next to Kori, that he feels something, something he thought was dead. Robin thought every part of him was dead, and  _ yet _ , right now, there is something stirring within him that he cannot help. This cannot be stopped, must not be stopped. Everything is happening too fast, too much.

Robin lays there, trapped in nothing. His fingers work viciously.

“I love you,” Star says. “I did not know that I loved you. But I love you now.” Fingers ghost over his cheek, cradling his head, and Robin leans into it. There is something on the tip of his tongue. He opens his mouth to say it, but his tongue forgets what it is supposed to tell her. Instead Robin simply stares up at her, hoping his eyes take some of the emotion that he feels, an emotion he was too broken to feel too long ago. Maybe that part of him that remembers will meet the part of her that  _ is _ , and she will  _ know _ , know what he is supposed to be saying.

“Human courtship is strange,” Star admits, “but I do not think it would be appropriate to kiss—you are tied down.” Instead, she leans forward, and Robin feels the press of lips on his forehead. It makes him ache, makes him twitch and yell, makes something inside him that was dead  _ burn _ . This should mean something. Robin should be there, should be here, should be anything that makes sense.

Robin wants Slade to be here. His master should be here. Robin sobs again, though he does not know why. He needs Slade here. That is the only thing that would make sense.

Star leaves. Robin is all alone.

The dim light flickers. Robin wonders if Dr. Light is coming back. He needs to get back to Slade, to see Slade, to meet Slade. To do anything to not be alone. Robin can’t feel the collar around his neck.

He turns his head to the side and throws up.

Robin doesn’t know how long it us until the door opens again; it couldn’t have been long, with the stench of his own vomit. Robin’s used to the stench of his own filth.

He still feels filthy, feels dirty, feels broken. His wrists are bleeding as he begins to loosen his bonds, working them down to the bone if he has to. Anything to get to Slade. Anything to get to the collar, to not be ashamed.

The shadow that falls over him is that of a bat. Blood drips onto Robin’s chest, and he realizes that it’s Bruce’s; he’s been wounded, a knife slipped between the plates of his armor and oozing out between them.

“Dick.” Bruce’s voice is heavy with something that Robin can’t put his finger on but still aches. A wet towel brushes the side of his face, cleaning up the vomit. Robin whimpers. He wants Slade.

“Where’s the collar?” he rasps, and he watches Bruce’s solid line of a mouth grow even more vicious, even more pointed. A forced anger on his face, pale because of blood loss.

“I won’t let him have you back,” Bruce swears. “If there is anything left of you in there, we will find it. The nanobots can be used to control your actions. I  _ know  _ you weren’t responsible for Beast Boy’s death.”

This should mean something.

All Robin sees is Slade behind his eyes.

“Please,” he begs, “take me back to my master.”

Bruce just sighs, long and pained and drawn out, a sigh long-suffering pain and anguish that Robin doesn’t understand. He thinks of all the unique pain in their eyes, in Cyborg’s, in everything. The world is full of pain, he thinks. Endless pain, always more for the next person, in a sea of troubles.

“I love you,” Bruce says, and his voice  _ cracks _ , and then he’s turning away. Robin stares up at him, tears trickling down his face, and he knows that he should feel something. He does feel something, something he doesn’t totally understand, aching deeply inside him.

The pain from working the bonds free, slowly, blood beginning to wet his arms in pools, distracts him. Bruce walks out slowly, in the shadow, and Robin realizes that he could’ve seen. Blood begins to trickle down to the floor off of the cot. Robin wonders if that’s the bone he’s feeling hurt him, the agony so familiar after the things that Slade has put him through. He remembers being whipped within an inch of his life, remembers how he thought he would die. The agony screams at him—

With a  _ crack,  _ Robin’s wrist breaks. He’s just barely able to pull the bloody thing out of the strap, just barely managing with shaking, barely-there fingers to unbuckle the other one. To unbuckle his ankles from that one, to find out where he is.

_ To find my master _ .

He has to find his master, he has to go to him, and then everything will be okay. Everything will make sense once again, everything will be known. It takes Robin only a little while to search the place—to find his knives, carelessly put on the table a little bit away, wiping vomit from his face. Robin then looks for the collar that he knows he has, searching as far as he can—he has to find it, has to get it, doesn’t have a  _ choice _ —

And there. It’s on his neck, and Robin’s pulse decreases just a little bit. He has to work through his panic. There’s only one more thing he needs, and he finds it by combing the floor on his hands and knees.

“Master,” he buzzes in, trying with the earpiece that he was given. He hopes it’s not totally short circuiting and that it still works. “I’m in a van, I’m out, but—” he glances at his hand, mangled and bleeding and screaming in pain at him. “Nothing. I’m out. I’m coming to find you.” His voice cracks here, in manner of Bruce’s and he’s reminded that his cheeks are still tearstained.

Robin runs out of the van, glancing around before going to find somewhere to watch the fighting. There’s got to be somewhere he can find, somewhere that means—

“Robin.” The voice is soft, sad. Robin spins to find Kori standing there—hovering there, a few feet above the ground. Not in the dark, he can see that her uniform has changed, no longer childish, speckled with armor and still dangerous. “You are leaving.”

“I have to find my master,” Robin says, and he begs once more for Star to understand, for her to know. “I have to—he owns me, you don’t understand, I can’t be  _ without  _ him.” Robin’s voice cracks again.

“Your hand,” Kori says. Robin looks down at it. It still hurts him.

“Oh,” Robin says.

“Let me see,” Kori says softly, and Robin holds out his mangled, bleeding hand.

“This may hurt,” she explains, and Robin nods, before he’s yelling at the agony of having his bones set back into place with superhuman strength. He gasps, Kori’s hands coming away bloody, tears of sheer pain trickling down his cheeks.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“I will miss you,” Kori says softly. She wipes something from her eye, and Robin knows that she is still crying.

A hand reaches up to wipe it away. Robin’s unhurt one, against her cheek.

“Don’t cry,” he says, and he cannot say why.

Kori sniffs. Then another sobs escapes her lips, but she bravely pushes it back. “It is alright,” she says. “It is not your fault.”

Robin senses that it is, but he does not know what to say.

“Kill her.”

Robin flinches. There is something in his earpiece, and even further he stares ahead and there is Slade, coming towards them in a staggering sort of way, and Robin starts to go to him but he was given an order.

“Kill her, pet,” Slade croons in his ear. “Be good for me, pet.  _ Kill her _ .” A dangerous edge to his voice, vicious and cruel.

Star stares sadly at Robin.

Robin stares back at her.

He should not know what he is going to do, but he knows anyways, deep in his soul, screaming with a sound that is unheard to anyone but him. This is an order. Robin does not have free will of his own, he has learned, because Slade can make him kill even when he does not wish to.

“He says to kill you,” Robin says softly. Kori has to run, to fight back, to do anything. Anything at all, anything, anything,  _ anything _ —

“And what will you do?” Star asks softly.

“He is my master,” Robin begs. A sob escapes him, and he doesn’t understand, his one hand clenching around her shoulder. “Please.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Star murmurs.

Robin’s hand is already clenched around the bit of his sword, and she doesn’t know, doesn’t understand that he is nothing, he is a toy a pet a slave and that Slade is the only real person here, whispering in his ear. There is nothing here but a hollowness, a blankness that cannot truly be explained.

The sword is drawn with a slick steel sound that grates on ears. It’s sick and cruel and vicious and Robin loathes it in that moment.

“I love you,” Star murmurs.

“ _ Oh _ ,” Robin whispers, because he understands now. Truly understands, truly knows, the something dead inside of him alive again, if only for a singular burning moment.

“I want you to know that I do not blame you, Robin,” Starfire says softly, sincerely, green eyes staring up into his. “Slade has done this. He has hurt you—” a hand ghosts over Robin’s cheeks, something soft that could be deadly, cruel in its tenderness “in ways that I do not know.”

“Fight me,” Robin begs.

“I will not fight you,” Star replies. “You may do what you wish to do, Dick. And—” her head tilts, ever so slightly, and Dick knows the thing in those eyes is  _ love _ .

And that he loves her back.

“—I forgive you.”

“Do it,” Slade snarls.

The blade goes in too easily.

The blood begins to bloom around it right afterwards. Robin pulls it out, leaving it to gush, the veins and the muscle there as Star collapses against him. Robin can barely hold her weight but he drops the knife to hold her, to cling to her with everything left inside him.

Robin’s fingers twine around her slim ones, squeezing softly, so that she knows that he is there. That he has not left her. That he will never leave her. He clings to her, holds her, lets her bleed in his arms with all the love he has left in him. It bleeds out with her blood, leaking onto the ground with the same crimson intensity, staining the green grass with the same ferocity. Robin thought that there was nothing left to drain away, but now he watches it leave himself.

He lowers her body to the ground, where it may bleed and be buried. Kori looks peaceful, beautiful. As she should be.

Robin hopes that she’s happy.

Renegade turns to see Slade standing there.

A batarang swirls through the air. Slade catches it between his fingers, and Bruce is there, staring at Kori, staring at Renegade.

“The passcode to turn off the device is OMEGA-OH-RED,” Slade says. “They betrayed me. Take the codes.”

Bruce doesn’t stop him from moving towards Renegade.

“Someday,” Bruce says, “I will kill you for taking him from me.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Slade replies, voice silky. “Come, pet.”

Renegade walks over to him, obedient and perfect and good.

He collapses against Slade’s bloodied form. His body simply gives out, unable to hold itself up anymore as it tries not to be sick, not to cry, not to scream. He feels Slade’s arms gather him up, feels himself shivering in them.

Renegade wants to scream, but instead he buries his face in Slade’s neck as deep as he can go and breathes him in, and knows that he is utterly owned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, uh.  
that's it.   
...  
yeah, it hurt me to read, too. :( BUT -  
IM SO GLAD YOU, RANDOM READER, HAVE MADE IT ALL THE WAY THROUGH!! i put my heart n soul into this fic and it means a lot that you've enjoyed it (or not. i mean, why are you at chapter 34 if you haven't enjoyed it??) it's been a TRIP, and i never expected the great reception and all the wonderful ppl who commented (<33 lov u) someone even [drew fanart](https://twitter.com/eternaltwit1/status/1244632446756253696) which u know . . ..   
*SCREECHES LIKE A PTERODACTYL*  
i'll miss posting and hearing from u guys :( but THIS IS NOT THE END!! i DO have more fics planned, even if the end date of finish them is looking a bit, uhhhh, sketchy. i'm kinda thinking about slade and robin having a kid . . . (pls no block) there might even eventually be a DIRECT sequel, but it's not my main project. if you'd like to keep track of me in the meantime, i'm on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gothamtrashparty) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/raperobin), or you could just subscribe.   
anyways. i love u all. PEACE OUT.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are love babies <3


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